


Forever Place

by euphemology



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Dean being shy and lovestruck, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2014, Denial, Fluff, M/M, Mild Angst, Sexual Situations, Sexual Tension, amnesiac!cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 02:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2605391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphemology/pseuds/euphemology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: In the face of Cas’ vanishing act into the depths of a Leviathan-laden reservoir and the countless Leviathan spirits free in the water system of the northern United States, Sam convinces a guilt-ridden Dean to come with him on a recovery case in Savannah, Georgia. The slow relaxation of a hot southern summer changes something imperceptibly in both of them and something makes them want to stay, even after the case is done. In the wake of this change, Dean meets a cashier at a local barbeque hut. He goes by James, but Dean knows him as something else: Castiel. A Castiel without memories, who quickly falls for the mysterious man with green eyes who frequents his work under the guise of loving barbeque (and peaches). They fall in love, slow like summer, under the hanging Spanish moss of an abandoned plantation that has fallen under the spell of Cas’ latent grace.</p><p>Season 7 canon-divergent AU that explores what would have happened if Cas had perhaps made his own way out of the river.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I am so happy to have been able to participate in the Dean/Castiel Big Bang this year. It’s been quite the ride. I never would have made it without all the wonderful support on tumblr and all you amazing readers who seem to like my writing. I am so grateful for your existence.
> 
> I have to extend a huge amount of heartfelt thanks to my absolutely amazing artist, Zerda (you can find her and her beautiful talents [here](http://zerdagratiaartis.tumblr.com/) on tumblr). Thank you, you incredible human being, for putting up with my crazy (and my complete scatterbrained-ness)
> 
> Secondly, to my lovely beta, Evelyn, I couldn’t have gotten through this without you. Thank you.
> 
> The amount of peaches I consumed during the writing of this story was exceptionally ridiculous, so brief shout-out to all the peach farmers in the world that supplied my habit and allowed this story to be brought to fruition (hehe).
> 
> On another note, this story takes place primarily in Savannah, Georgia. I have been to Atlanta and I draw some of my Georgia knowledge from my experiences there, and the rest of the knowledge comes from research. Keep in mind that this story is fictional, and most of the places are simply inspired by actual places in Savannah, not concretely based. I wanted this story to have a certain overall tone of warmth and satisfaction, and I thus play up the slightly stereotyped romantic themes of the south. The story is fictional and, as such, places mentioned herein are exaggerated and molded in order to suit the needs of the story.
> 
> One final note: My knowledge of barbeque is scarce, but I did as much research as I could to try and do such an amazing culture justice. Please do not take offense if there are any misportrayals. From my research, Georgia seems to be a melting pot of amazing barbeque that can vary from city to city, but is typically a wet, tomato-based sauce with hints of mustard.

_“Somewhere,” GA_ – 8th August 2011

 

Green eyes flash _. And then there is nothing._

 

It’s been the same for weeks now. Ever since he awoke on the edge of a riverbank, bloody and bruised and torn at the seams.

 

The fear he had felt in that moment… _Impossible to forget_. That _bone-deep terror_ which had been so all encompassing; so white-hot and skin-burningly invasive… He remembers the water, lapping at his ankles as warmth trickled over his splayed limbs. He hadn’t been sure if it was blood or sunlight. The _smell_ … metallic and tainted by hints of putrefaction. His body had felt human… but with a pervading sense of _‘other.’_   At the time, he hadn’t known what to make of it. He still doesn’t know.

 

He looks down at himself, shaking beneath the folds of crumpled bedsheets. The dreams that have plagued him are hazy, disjointed things that make him feel like he’s forgetting something… something of vital importance.

 

He supposes that is a normal feeling for someone in his position. In his ‘ _state of being,’_ per say. That is to say, the state of being _without_. A state of emptiness where his memories used to be.

 

_He doesn’t even have a name._


	2. Adrift

“’ _Do you know me?’ The wind asked unto the bird. ‘I cannot remember you,’ the bird replied, ‘but I would know you anywhere. You carry me.’”_

-North American Proverb

 

_Sioux Falls, South Dakota_ – 8 th August 2011

 

_“Dean.”_

 

Sam’s voice was like a heavy fog. It washed over him, but it was faint… easy to ignore. _Transparent_.

 

The hand on his shoulder, shaking him… _not as much_.

 

“ _What_ , Sam?” Dean’s tone, stilted and flat, made the words sound more like a begrudging statement than a question.

 

Sam removed his hand, slowly, as if Dean was a temperamental bull and could be set off by something so simple as a misplaced touch.

 

“We should get out of here. Take some time off.”

 

Dean grunts at him intelligently before turning his attention back to the television where a woman in a tasteful dress is describing the crisis in the Middle East in typical ‘soft news’ terminology.

 

“ _Dean_.” Sam sounds like a whiny twelve year old and Dean suddenly feels the need to punch something.

 

He whirls around. “ _Where,_ Sam? Where exactly do you want to go?” Dean spreads his arms out in an exaggerated shrug. “We haven’t heard anything about anything. We’re sitting here with our heads between our legs and we don’t have a single lead. We don’t have a damn thing on those black freaks that exploded out of…” Dean clenches his teeth painfully and lets his arms fall back to his sides. “ _Anyway…_ we have nothing. Hell, we have _less_ than nothing. At least _here_ I can… I dunno, find some old cars to fix up or something.”

 

Sam sighs, and then a sympathetic look spreads over his face. Dean feels the need to punch _him_ now.

 

“It was Bobby’s idea, Dean. We’ve been here long enough.” Sam’s eyes are wide and pleading and Dean wants to go bash in the hood of a broken down car. “Even _he_ can see you’re going stir crazy.” He gets more earnest when Dean remains silent, “And we wouldn’t be driving aimlessly. Bobby found a case near Savannah. Simple salt and burn… It’ll help you take your mind off of …things.”

 

“Oh my _god._ ” Dean turns away and buries his face in his hands. He feels Sam shift next to him. “ _Don’t_ touch me.”

 

“Dean, you need to stop bottling it up. Just _talk_ about it—”

 

“Fine.”

 

“’ _Fine,’_ you’ll talk about it? Or…”

 

“ _Fine,”_ Dean begins exasperatedly, “We can go to _Savannah._ ”

 

***

 

_I was **there**._

 

Dean watches as Cas falls to the ground. His body acts of its own accord as it lunges forward to catch Cas in outstretched arms before his brain can be brought into the picture. He can feel his forehead twisting in anxiety, his mouth parted as he waits for the inevitable, his breath shallow and bated.  Dean’s hands linger on Cas’ arms, steadying him, but it’s an excuse. A vain attempt to hold onto something for once in his life. He wants desperately to feel Cas’ life-force thrumming beneath his hands… something that will convince him that everything is going to be okay. He wants to feel Cas solid and righteous-strong beneath his skin; an electric hum of unimaginable power.  Instead, Cas is pliable and weak; a rag doll trying to stand in the force of a hurricane. Dean’s hands are a flimsy buttress against the storm. Cas is going to fall.

 

_“I’m doing this for you, Dean.”_

Bobby finishes the incantation and there is no pause, no build of suspense… the souls spiral out of Cas’ chest as if it were ripped open and laid bare to the mercy of one thousand tornados. Cas stands through it all and, even in the deafening din of roaring souls and the screams of Purgatory, Dean is filled with a pathetic, brimming hope that this is all going to actually be okay.

 

He knows it shows on his face. He knows Bobby can see the obvious pleading weakness in his eyes, childlike and painfully naïve. _In the face of all they’ve suffered, can they not have this one victory?_

 

“ _You think you don’t deserve to be saved.”_

 

_Neither do you, Cas._

 

***

 

“Jesus _Christ!_ ” Sam’s hand shoots out of nowhere to grasp at the steering wheel, “Dean! Watch the road!”

 

Sam’s reflexes had pulled them out of the path of an oncoming truck. Dean’s eyes are wide as he and Sam are temporarily blinded by outrageously bright headlights.

 

“Sorry.” Dean mumbles, blinking and retraining his gaze on the road in front of them and tightening his grip on the steering wheel. The black leather slipped and slid beneath his hands… his palms were sweaty. Dean inhaled sharply through his nose and wiped one hand on his jeans, annoyed and embarrassed.

 

“’ _Sorry?’_ ” Sam prodded, “Dean, you almost got us in a _car crash_.”

 

Dean ignored him in favor of wiping his other hand in his lap, impatiently, his tongue darting out to swipe nervously at his lower lip.

 

“Let me take a turn driving, Dean. We’ve been on the road for 4 hours without stopping.”

 

“No.” Dean grunts, shoulders hunching. “It relaxes me.”

 

“Yeah, you look really relaxed over there.” Sam mumbles, sarcastically.

 

Nevertheless, Dean watches out of the corner of his eye as Sam slumps back into his seat in quiet resignation.

 

It remains quiet between them for the next ten miles, the sound of wheels against pavement and the occasional clang of metal filling the pregnant silence. Dean _almost_ feels calm.

 

“So are you going to tell me what had you so distracted back there or what?” Sam asks, out of nowhere.

 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Or what.”

 

Sam sighs beleagueredly, as if he doesn’t get paid enough to put up with Dean’s bullshit.

 

Dean just glances out the window at an upcoming gas station and makes a quick left turn into the lot. There’s a rundown diner the size of a cable car next to the attendant’s stand, and Dean parks the Impala and pulls the keys out with more force than intended before climbing out of the car.

 

“We’re taking a food break.” Dean grumbles, before pushing the door closed and trudging towards the diner, not really caring whether Sam follows or not.

 

 As Dean slides into a windowed booth, Sam slides in opposite him and they sit in silence until a brunette server comes over and stands in front of their table. She is short and moderately attractive, with sharp, pixie-like features and a haircut to match.  


“Hey, boys. How are ya this morning?”

 

Sam gives the girl a half-smile and a nod before returning his gaze to the menu. Dean sighs and sets his menu down.

 

“We’re not _too_ bad,” Dean begins, a smile spreading over his face in a poor attempt at flirting, “Better now that you’re here, of course.”

 

The girl – ‘ _Holly,_ ’ her nametag reads – smirks back at him. “I’ll bet. You guys certainly look hungry.”

 

Sam snorts and Dean shoots him a quick glare.

 

“So can I get you two some drinks? Or are you ready to order?” Holly seems pleased with herself for shooting down Dean’s pathetic advances, an impish smile on her heart-shaped face. Dean looks at her for a moment, finding her inexplicably more beautiful than he had when she first came over to their table.

 

“Still thinking?” she trains her sparkling blue gaze on Dean’s and raises an eyebrow.

 

Dean nearly chokes. “No.” He coughs slightly to cover up the sudden tremor in his throat. “No, we’re, uh, we’re good to go. Can I get a coffee, black?”

 

Holly nods and jots it down in her notepad. Dean glances at the menu again. He really wanted a burger… but now he can’t seem to imagine eating it without thinking about… He rubs his palm over his mouth and shuts down that train of though before it can go any further. _Waffles are always good._

 

“And two of the, uh… ‘ _Banana Split-acular Waffles.’”_ Dean grins and places his menu in Holly’s outstretched hand.

 

“Dean, you _hate_ fruit.” Sam raises an eyebrow.

 

“Not if it’s covered in chocolate sauce.” Dean winks at Holly, who doesn’t blush so much as roll her eyes.

 

“I’ll have the yogurt parfait and a glass of orange juice, please.” Sam is pleasant and polite, and earns himself Holly’s first real smile since she’s been at their table. “I seem to be the only one here who knows that it’s five o’clock in the morning.”

 

Holly laughs as she takes Sam’s menu. “I’ll be back with your drinks in a few. Hang tight.”

 

“Is food going to make you act like more or less of a dick? What do you think, Dean?” Sam asks once Holly is out of earshot.

 

“Whoa.” Dean holds up his hands in mock defense. “Someone had their snarkflakes this morning. What did I do _now_?”

 

Sam sighs exasperatedly. “Do you have to gawk at _all_ of our waitresses? She’s just trying to do her job.”

 

“Jesus, Sam, I was just trying to be friendly. God knows she gets her share of crazies through here.”

 

“Dean, you’re _one of them_. It’s like, you see a skirt and it’s not even a conscious reaction anymore. You just _have_ to flirt and, if _I’m_ getting annoyed, imagine how all these girls feel.”

 

“It’s not malicious, Sam.” Dean grumbles.

 

Sam exhales sharply and spreads his hands out on the formica tabletop. “I _know,_ but maybe if you were just honest with yourself for _once…_ ”

 

“Honest about what?” Dean’s eyebrows furrow. He’s genuinely confused now.

 

“Oh my god. You _truly_ don’t know.” Sam wonders at him and shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

 

“Is this because you’re into her?”

 

“ _What?”_

 

“Our waitress. You got the hots for her or something?”

 

Sam gives him the most incredulous look. Dean is convinced he’s never seen someone so talented at rolling their eyes without actually rolling them.

 

“You’re just like him sometimes.” Sam mumbles, turning to face the window where the dim light of dawn illuminates the crack-filled parking lot.

 

Dean clenches his teeth and resists the urge to storm out of the diner. He doesn’t need to be a genius to know who Sam was comparing him to.

 

When Holly returns with their drinks, Dean decides to get his revenge. “I think my brother here might have a crush on you.”

 

 

Sam shoots Dean a glare that he feels with a pang in his heart because, for an instant, Sam is 13 again, hopeful and naïve, with dreams of going to college laid out in front of him like a yellow brick road to happiness. The vision fades back into the muted pastel colors of the diner rather abruptly, and Sam is sitting across from him, looking very much 26, haggard and tired and forcing a smile as he looks up at Holly, no doubt coming up with some excuse for Dean’s transgressions in his overly large skull.

 

Holly glances at Sam and then back to Dean before smirking. “You boys are very sweet. If I ever decide to swing your way, you’ll be the first to know.” She sets their glasses down in front of them and walks away with a quick sashay of her hips.

 

Dean sits in stunned silence, attempting to ignore the fact that Sam is across from him exercising a poor attempt to restrain his laughter. “Wait. _What?_ ”

 

“You got schooled, that's what.” Sam grins.

 

“I don’t understand what just happened.”

 

“She’s a lesbian, Dean.” Sam explains, still smirking as he takes a sip of his orange juice.

 

Dean hooks a finger around the coffee cup in front of him and slides it around on the table. “Huh.”

 

“I like her.” Sam concludes, still grinning. “Maybe I can get some advice from her on how to deal with you before we leave.”  


“Shut up, Sam.”

 

After they finished their 5am specials and said their goodbyes to Holly – she turned out to be pretty awesome and told them some great stories about the people she’s seen pass through her diner – they returned to the Impala. The early morning sunlight glinted off the hood, blindingly bright, but only for a moment.

 

“Do you want to find a motel or something?” Sam asks before they reach the car.

 

“Aw, Sammy, if you want to get me alone all you gotta do is ask.” Dean winks at him.

 

“Where are we anyway?” Sam chooses to completely ignore Dean’s childish attempts to antagonize him.

 

“Bumfuck, Missouri, if my internal Google map is correct.”

 

“So we’ve got _minimum_ 15 hours of driving left until we reach Savannah.” Sam muses. “You either have to let me drive or we’re finding a motel and taking naps.”

 

Dean sighs and throws the keys at Sam.

 

“You catch like a girl.”

 

“Thank you.” Sam retorts, not missing a beat, as he slides into the driver’s seat.

 

Dean chooses to spread out in the backseat. Maybe he’ll be able to close his eyes for an hour.

 

***

 

Dean _does_ nap. It is a delicate, blessedly dreamless state… Dean doesn’t know why he lucked out on the dreamlessness front, but he chooses to believe that it has something to do with the way the Impala’s rocking suspension sways him like a soft lullaby. _He wonders if this is how he slept as a child._   It’s impossible to know for sure. He’s so far away from that part of his life now. In his last vestiges of fragile relaxation, he thinks he sees Mary. For an impossible moment, she is singing to him. But the moment is over and Dean’s eyes are wide open. The singing fades away into the creaks and groans of the Impala’s wheels as they speed over rough pavement.

 

“You awake?”

 

Dean grunts in response to Sam’s incredibly pervasive question.

 

“We’re in Kentucky. Should be crossing the border into Tennessee in about an hour.”

 

Dean grunts again and rubs the sleep from his eyes before looking at Sam in the driver’s seat. “Wait… what?”

 

“Kentucky, Dean. We are in _Kentucky_. Do you want chicken or something?”

 

“Did I seriously sleep through all of Missouri?”

 

“You didn’t miss much, Dean, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Sam shrugs.

 

“Can’t believe I slept that long.”

 

Sam doesn’t say anything to that. Dean straightens up and looks out the window. The skies are gray and thick with clouds. The sky looks heavy; like it might crumble under its own weight if given the chance.

 

“Looks like rain.” Dean mumbles, tapping the window with his finger and watching as condensation spreads like a fog around his print on the glass.

 

“Yeah, looks like.” Sam says, squinting at the sky through the windshield.

 

“Say, do you think it can rain Leviathans?”

 

“That’s something I never want to find out.” Sam replies gravely.

 

Dean laughs because, in theory, the image is hilarious. He laughs because he cracks himself up sometimes. He laughs because Sam’s face in the rearview mirror is hilarious. He laughs because it makes everything feel lighter. Even if it’s just for a moment.

 

When it _does_ start to rain, Dean is in the driver’s seat again, and the Impala’s cup holders are filled with foil wrapped candy bars, and a few granola bars that Sam had thrown on the counter at their most recent gas station pit stop.

 

“Doesn’t look like Leviathans.” Dean says, conversationally, as the rain smashes against the roof of the Impala.

 

“Yeah, well it doesn’t look _good._ ” Sam murmurs, craning his neck forward to look up at the sky. “We should stop.”

 

“No way.” Dean grips the steering wheel and pushes harder on the acceleration. The Impala feels good under his hands. She sails over the soaked streets, leaving twin tail-sprays of water in her wake. “We’ve only got a few hours until Savannah. Let’s just get there.”

 

Sam sighs and resigns himself in the passenger seat, folding his arms over his chest before shuffling and pulling a sheet of paper from his pocket. “I almost forgot. Bobby set us up with a safehouse down there. Said we could take our time with the case since no one’s died yet.”

 

“Wait, no one’s _dead?_ ” Dean turns to Sam with raised eyebrows before looking back to the wet road in front of them. “Why are we even wasting our time with this one?”

 

“Well, the ghost seems benevolent, but she approaches people so much that everyone down there is starting to get a little ghost-crazy. It’s the last thing we need right now: people thinking supernatural things exist _and_ thinking it’s safe, or even _fun_ , to approach them. Plus Bobby’s dead sure that this ghost is a recent one. She’ll go nasty soon enough, and, with the volume of people that go to the old house to have séances with her, we’ll have plenty of deaths on our hands.”

 

Dean sighs. “So it’s a slow day.”

 

“Yeah, it’s a bit of a slow day.” Sam concedes. “But, hey, bright side: you get to gank something that probably won’t try to rip your arm off.”

 

Dean snorts. “Yeah, nice change. So where’s this safehouse?”

 

“It’s in the outskirts of Savannah.” Sam unfolds the piece of paper in his hands and a key falls into his lap. “Pretty nice from the sounds of it. Used to belong to an old pastor who took up hunting later in life, after his parish was terrorized by a demon. He passed away about ten years ago and left his place to Bobby.”

 

“Is there a pool?” Dean asks, bluntly.

 

“I don’t think so.” Sam sighs, as if Dean is being particularly dense.

 

“Hmm. Shame. It’s damn hot out.”

 

“We’re inside a car, Dean.”

 

“I can feel it though.” Dean makes an unintelligible gesture with his hand. “The air’s all heavy n’shit. It’s the curse of the south. Hotter than the devil’s asshole in July.”

 

“I’m not going to ask why you know the temperature of Lucifer’s asshole.” Sam quips, folding the key back between the paper and stuffing it in his jacket pocket.

 

“Bitch.”

 

“Jerk.”

 

***

 

A few hundred miles later, and they’re an hour away from Savannah. The sky is heavy and dark, and the Impala’s dashboard clock says that it’s nearing midnight. The air feels moist inside the cabin, and Dean’s shirt sticks to him slightly, even with the air conditioning vents directed towards him. He shuffles slightly in his seat, but doesn’t feel any relief. Sam sleeps peacefully in the passenger seat, and Dean is suddenly filled with irrational anger. Dean’s been occupied by a weird kind of pervading anxiety ever since they drove over the Georgia line.

 

He finds himself dwelling on the blue eyes of the waitress back in Missouri… or at least he tries to tell himself that that’s whose eyes he’s seeing. Flashes of blue followed by pools of stagnant water, swirling with black. His mouth feels stale and there’s a phantom smell of rot surrounding him that he hasn’t encountered since… the reservoir.

 

 

Dean isn’t stupid. He knows how his brain works. He knows what he’s experiencing.

 

Every day is different.

 

Sometimes, Dean feels empty inside. Like every internal organ has been stripped from his body.

 

Some days, he feels too full. Too full of sorrow. Of weakness. Sometimes, Dean misses him so much his heart _aches_ with it.

 

But he does nothing. Weeks of repression do wonders for the psyche’s ability to generate hallucinations.

 

***

 

Dean remembers standing by the river. He remembers the feeling of hopelessness inside him that had surged to unbelievable levels in that moment. He was helpless. Watching Cas, or some semblance of Cas, stumble his way into the reservoir, coat tails trailing behind him in pathetic defeat. Some part of Dean had wanted desperately to dive in and hold onto the end of the trenchcoat. Never let go.

 

_I was there._

The water laps over Cas’ skull, completely erasing him from view, Dean feels his stomach collapse. His heart is in his throat and he wants to scream but he can’t. _If he can just manage to call Cas’ name then everything will be okay._ But the words don’t come. Dean just stands there, mortified, mute… motionless. His best friend falls beneath the waves, black exploding out of him like some horrible, B-rated horror movie. Dean blinks because he can’t believe his eyes.

 

**_I was there._ **

 

The trenchcoat laps at the shore and Dean, trance-like, retrieves it with shaking hands. Tremor is a terrible thing. It gives you away when you least expect it. It makes your father-figure look at you with irrepressible pity, like he just watched you die in front of him. It makes your brother stare at you, horrifying realization spreading over his face. You don’t know what he’s just realized – or, rather, you pretend not to know. Dean clenches his hands in the wet fabric and struggles with the lump in his throat. _When did that get there._ His eyes are filling with confused tears and he clamps his mouth shut and swallows hard. If he swallows hard enough, he might be able to force them back. Cas is gone. _He’s not gone._ He’s gone. And whose fault is it? Who can he blame? There is nothing left but black in the water, and Dean doesn’t know how to strangle amorphous goo.

 

Dean remembers standing by the river. And he remembers loss with a painful clarity. A single wayward thought and he is standing there again, watching his best friend throw himself into oblivion.

 

_I was there._

_Where were you?_

***

 

“Dean. _Dean.”_ Sam shoves his shoulder.

 

“What.” Dean grits his teeth because his eyes feel wet and he’s not sure how that happened.

 

“You have got to stop doing that.”

 

“Doing what?” Dean asks with a sharp exhale, trying to get his face back to some kind of neutral expression.

 

“ _Spacing out.”_ Sam stresses, aggravation saturating his voice. “You obviously have a lot on your mind which you’re never going to talk about, which is completely healthy by the way, but if I die because you were too busy inside your own head to watch the road I—“

 

“Relax, Sam. I know how to drive.”

 

Sam sighs like he doesn’t know why he deserves to feel so put-upon. “Then pay attention. I have to direct you to the safehouse.”

 

“Can do.” Dean nods like nothing is wrong. Because nothing’s wrong. His brother is alive and next to him. They have an easy case, and a cushy house to stay in while they track down a non-violent ghost. There’s nothing to worry about. _Everything’s great._


	3. Wanderlust

_“When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You know that your name is safe in their mouth.”_

-Jess C. Scott, _The Intern_

 

Savannah is pretty in the daylight. The house is nice too, Dean decides as he wanders into the kitchen.

 

“Needs a bit of work, but it’ll do.”

 

Dean looks around the kitchen. The walls are decorated with tile that’s seen better days, but the scarily vibrant, orange flowers on some of them brighten the room to a degree. They also kind of freak Dean out. The counters are some cheap, synthetic material, made to look like marble, and there are knife scratches on the slab closest to the stove top. There’s a set of flimsy wood barstools at the only windowed counter, overlooking a rolling expanse of a yard, trees dripping in Spanish moss. If Dean knows anything about summertime bugs in Georgia, he won’t be spending any time out there after nightfall.

 

“You talking to someone or is this place already driving you stir crazy?” Sam’s voice comes from behind him.

 

Dean turns to look at him. “Oh, hey.” Then he spots the bags in Sam’s hands. “Hey! You already had time to go to the _store?_ ” Dean is incredulous. It’s practically dawn.

 

“I wanted to go for a run before it got hot.” Sam shrugs, setting the bags down on the counter with the bar stools. “Got breakfast. Did you see if the fridge is cool enough to use yet?”

 

“No, but it’s been plugged in all night so it should be fine.” Dean walks over to the refrigerator and pulls the door open. Refreshingly cold air pours over his legs and bare feet. His toes twitch. “Yeah it’s good.”

 

“Dean, close the door. You’re going to let all the cold air out.”

 

“Mmmm. Feels so good though.” Dean is leaning unconsciously closer to the inside of the fridge, one hand braced on the open door.

 

Sam pulls him off and slams the door shut.

 

“You’re like a two year old, Dean.” Sam rolls his eyes and hands him a small bag, grease seeping through the paper. “Here, I got you hashbrowns and an egg sandwich. Enjoy your heart attack.”

 

“Hey, eggs are good for you.” Dean says, sagely, as he pulls the food out and sits at one of the barstools.

 

He and Sam sit side-by-side and eat in silence. When Dean finishes stuffing the last of his fried potatoes in his mouth he wipes a bead of sweat from between his eyebrows.

 

“So, uh, we should get an air conditioner.” Dean muses. “Or something.”

 

***

 

“So that’s it?” Dean asks, as they leave the college campus later that day, “That’s all we need for interviews?”

 

“Yeah.” Sam replies, climbing into the passenger seat of the Impala. “I already found all the information on where the girl is buried. I just wanted to be sure that we’re dealing with a spirit that hasn’t gone completely dark side yet. We should still be prepared either way, but it seems like she’s just a wayward spirit.”

 

“Do we know why she stuck around?” Dean prods, turning the key in the ignition.

 

“Something to do with love.” Sam sighs. “Most of the college students who visit seem to have some sort of relationship issue. She gives advice, apparently. I’m guessing that she had some kind of hardship and couldn’t let go.”

 

“And right now, since she’s benevolent, she wants to help people not make the same mistakes she did.” Dean concludes. “Huh, funny. Guy I talked to said it was a hazing dare to go visit the old house and see if they could rile up her spirit.”

 

“You obviously didn’t interview as many people as I did.” Sam grumbles.

 

“They had a nice cafeteria.” Dean glances at Sam out of the corner of his eye. “Shut up.”

 

“Not saying anything.” Sam smiles. “Want to go at nightfall?”

 

“Sure.”

 

***

 

“We should try that barbeque place.” Dean gestures out the window as they drive by a glowing neon sign on their way to the old house that the ghost has been haunting. “It looks sketchy as hell.”

 

“So… why exactly do you want to try it?” Sam asks, sounding tired.

 

“Because, obviously, the sketchiest places either have the best barbeque you’ve ever tasted in your life, or you’re sick for weeks.”

 

“I repeat: _why_ do you want to try it?”

 

“Girls like you would never understand.” Dean shakes his head in mourning.

 

“Let’s take care of the ghost and then _maybe_ I’ll set foot in the ‘sketchy as hell’ barbeque joint.”

 

“Awesome.” Dean grins. “I bet it’s awesome.”

 

“Twenty bucks says you won’t leave the bathroom for a week.” Sam challenges.

 

“You’re on.”

 

They pull up to the house a few minutes later. It’s not in a state of irreparable ruin, or disrepair, it just looks… _empty._ The paint is chipped on the front porch, and there’s dirt and dust and bugs _everywhere_. But it’s by far not the worst thing Dean’s ever seen.

 

“I fucking hate bugs.” Dean mumbles, slapping his arm much harder than intended and wincing. He watches angrily as the bug flies away, unharmed. He never quite understands how that happens. Stupid indestructible bugs.

 

“Remember that case, one of the first ones we did together?” Sam asks as he picks the lock of the house and pushes the door open. “The one with all those bugs in Suburbia?”

 

Dean mimes vomiting. “Ugh, gross. Sam, we don’t talk about that case.”

 

Sam laughs. “So, should we séance? I don't think we’ll be able to antagonize her into existence…”

 

Suddenly there’s a loud wailing sound that shakes the unsteady rafters of the house. Dean’s hands fly to his ears as the figure of a girl rushes down the stairs, almost as if she is flying. Dean jerks backward as she lands directly in front of him. Pale, dead eyes peering into his, unblinking.

 

“Um, Sam?”

 

“You have been a victim of love’s tragedy.” The ghost whispers, sorrow in her voice. “Your companion has too, but his took place a long time ago. Your wound is new. You are tortured by love.”

 

Dean takes a step back. “Uh… you got it all wrong lady. I don’t really do the whole love thing.”

 

Sam snickers and says something about this being the best case ever. Dean shoots him a glare, but the ghost grabs his face and turns him back to face her.

 

“Holy shit, you’re already corporeal?” Dean exclaims, ignoring the chill of her fingers on his chin.

 

“I don’t know what that means…” The ghost muses, her voice sweet and lilted with a southern accent.

 

“Uh, it doesn’t matter.” Dean says quickly. “We’re here to help you. We came to put you to rest.”

 

“You can do that?” She gazes into Dean’s eyes as if entranced.

 

“Um, yeah.” Dean takes a step back because, seriously, a face full of angsty ghost gets a little weird.

 

“You will send me to be with my one true love!” She exclaims.

 

“Uh, maybe.” Dean mumbles. “We just need to know where you’re buried.”

 

“Here.” The ghost gestures around, unhelpfully, before swirling around the room.  “There is never a time or place for true love. It is a tragic paradox.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes.

 

Sam pulls out a list of notes. “Dean, I think they have a family burial plot in the backyard by the oak tree.”

 

“Then let’s hop to it. Before she starts singing love songs or something.”

 

“Oooh, love songs!” The ghost flies over to them as they walk out to the backyard. “I _love_ love songs! Do you know any?”

 

***

 

Dean wakes up the next morning in one of the creaky beds of the safehouse.  For a moment, he wonders if the case last night was all just a weird dream.

 

He shakes his head to clear it and climbs out of bed. A quick glance at his phone tells him that he’s been asleep for five hours.

 

“Good to be back on track.” Dean mumbles to himself, and walks downstairs.

 

The kitchen is empty, meaning Sam is either still asleep… or running. Dean shudders. Why anyone would want to run anywhere when nothing is chasing them is something Dean will never understand.

 

Dean pulls open the door to the fridge and shuffles through a few of Sam’s yogurts before shutting the door in disgust. He wants eggs. And bacon. And coffee. Luckily, coffee is a possibility. Dean pulls a bag of grounds from one of the cupboards and brews enough for Sam to have some too. He inhales the musky scent of warm coffee as he pours himself a mug of the rich brown liquid. He adds an extra scoop of grounds to his mug, for good measure, and takes care to avoid cutting his finger on the mug’s broken handle.

 

“Coffee is my new god.” Dean muses as Sam walks into the kitchen, sleepy and bed-haired. “I’m going to build a temple and worship coffee.”

 

“Whatever works, Dean.” Sam grumbles as he pours coffee into a thick glass cup.

 

“Still can’t believe that case was real.”

 

Sam makes a humming noise, like he’s considering something and goes to sit by the window. Dean follows.

 

“Weirdest ghost ever right?” Dean sighs. “Now that that’s over, when are we getting out of here?”

 

Sam looks up at the ceiling like it holds all the answers and then lowers his head to sip idly at his coffee. “Hmm.” He hums, swallowing. “Didn’t you want to check out that barbeque place?”

 

“Well, yeah, but we can do that on our way out of town.” Dean swallows that last of his coffee in one gulp.

 

“No way.” Sam slams his cup down and picks up a newspaper. “No way am I sharing a car with you after you’ve had barbeque that ‘may or may not’ make you violently ill.”

 

“Seriously? You’re the gassiest human alive and you’re concerned about sharing the car with a _possibility_.

 

“I’m not getting in a car with you until your digestive system has had a twenty-four hour period to think about what it’s done.”

 

“Fine.” Dean dumps his mug in the sink and picks up a jacket, pulling a carton of mints from one of the pockets and popping one in his mouth. “I’ll go by myself.”

 

The parking situation near the restaurant had not looked promising, if Dean remembers correctly. And nothing is worth compromising Baby’s paint job. So Dean chooses to walk the two blocks to the barbeque place. _It’s early anyway,_ he thinks to himself to excuse the obvious exercise he is willingly partaking in.

 

Savannah’s a pretty cool place. Dean has to admit it to himself as he walks down the sidewalk. There are tons of old buildings with wrought iron balconies, lined up against each other like happy sardines. Most of the buildings on the outskirts of the city aren’t more than four stories, and Dean can see the clear blue of the sky as it contrasts with some of the more brightly colored apartment buildings. He also secretly hopes to run into an inhumanly nice, elderly southern lady that will either give him incredibly sound life advice, or a really well-made pie. Dean glances at his watch.

 

 _10:43_ , the display blinks at him. As Dean draws closer to the shopfront, he hopes desperately that the place is open, and he didn’t walk this whole way for nothing. When he reaches the door he sees a red and white time card that displays weekday hours to be _10:00 am to 7 pm._

 

“Awesome.” Dean mumbles excitedly, pulling the door open to be greeted by a rush of heavenly air conditioning.

 

He wanders into the restaurant, taking note of his surroundings. There are a few tables to his right, arranged haphazardly on the black and white tiled floor. The seats are old, red vinyl, and the tabletops look like they’ve seen better days. Dean wanders to the counter, where a bowl of startlingly perfect peaches is arranged next to the register. Dean hears bustling in the back of the shop, but the counter is unmanned. He considers ringing the bell until a gruff voice sounds from the back.

 

“Coming!”

 

Dean’s heart is suddenly in his throat because there’s no way… _there’s no **way**._

 

A dark-haired man emerges from the kitchen, pulling an apron over his head. As he reaches the counter, his head pops free of the apron and Dean is greeted with a full head of messy, dark hair, a strong jaw, and electric, piercingly blue eyes that he would know anywhere. _He would know them anywhere._

 

“ _C-Cas?_ ” Dean doesn’t recognize his own voice. He hadn’t even meant to _speak._

 

“Excuse me?” The man at the counter tilts his head in confusion and Dean has to physically hold himself back from lunging across the counter. He still doesn’t know if he wants to hug Cas or punch him, but he can’t do either, because whoever is standing at the counter clearly has no idea who Dean is.

 

His nametag says “ _James_ ” and that spouts a new bout of nausea that has Dean grabbing a peach and paying for it while stumbling over half-formed sentences and subsequently rushing from the restaurant.

 

When Dean gets back to the house, he tries to calm his expression. He has no idea what he looks like, but he’s pretty sure Sam would notice him being pale as a sheet and shaking. _Had it been a hallucination?_ Dean wonders. He rakes fingers through his hair and squats down on the walkway leading up to the house; his inhales sharp through clenched teeth. _It can’t have been real._ The case with the ghost and the weird flashbacks were just doing something to his mental state. He’ll just… go back tomorrow. And there will be a dark-haired guy there that looks and sounds nothing like Cas. Dean tries to convince himself of this, but it’s futile. In the back of his mind, the scene is replaying over and over again. And, as torturous as it is, Dean feeds the visions to hear Cas’ voice one more time.

 

***

 

“So, how was barbeque?” Sam asks, conversationally.

 

Miraculously, he hadn’t been home when Dean had returned, and Dean had grown quite comfortable with the silence as he tried to work out what the hell had happened that morning. He jumps when he hears Sam’s voice and resists turning to face him.

 

“I, uh, I didn’t go?” Dean’s voice was unsteady and he hadn’t meant for the statement to sound like a question, but apparently it’s five hours later and he _still_ hasn’t recovered a normal sounding voice.

 

 “Why not?” Sam asks from the kitchen, innocence heavy in his tone as he shuffles something around that sounds like paper.

 

“I, uh, wasn’t feeling well.” Dean turns to walk from the dining room into the kitchen, steeling himself against Sam’s unnatural powers of perception.

 

“Oh,” Sam nods as he fusses with a large box in the middle of the floor. “Just go tomorrow then.”

 

Dean stares at him, but Sam doesn’t look up from the box.

 

“Check it out,” Sam gestures, “I got us an air conditioner.”

 

“Why.” Dean asks, flatly.

 

“There’s something I want to research at the university library.” Sam turns to Dean with a half smile. “And there’s a beach nearby. I want to go for a run there. Let’s just stay a few more days?”

 

Dean has no idea how to say no without giving away everything he’s been trying to hold back. Part of him wants to tell Sam everything that happened, but another part doesn’t trust that what happened was actually real. And the consequences of admitting that are even worse. _How do you tell your brother that you’re seeing the ghost of your_ sort of _best friend?_ The implications are horrifying, and Dean is definitely not ready for that.

 

“Alright, fine.”

 

“Great.” Sam smiles, “Now come help me set this thing up before we die of heat stroke.”

 

***

 

As it turns out, Sam holds most of the power over when they get to leave Savannah. Three days later, Dean hasn’t set foot in the barbeque place, but he has indifferently followed Sam around Savannah, and he is loathe to admit that the city is starting to grow on him. Sam’s favorite place seems to be Monterey Square, and he has customized his running route to include the area.

 

It is one of those days where Sam is wasting the sunlight hours in Monterey Square, and Dean is left alone at the house, that Dean decides to revisit the barbeque place. He has come to terms with the fact that he had obviously hallucinated some form of Cas, and he had to go back to lay the theory to rest.

 

That is how Dean finds himself walking, late on a hot Georgia afternoon, the same route he had taken a few days earlier. He ignores how familiar the area feels to him. The fact that he and Sam have unwittingly “settled” into Atlanta is a strange feeling, but, in the face of lazy Southern afternoons, friendly people, and slow food… Dean can’t bring himself to come up with reasons to leave.  He is so caught up in these thoughts that he almost walks right by the storefront, but he stops at the last minute and pulls the door open. Something about the South makes him feel calm, and the empty counter relaxes him even more. It makes it seem like a few days ago was just a dream.  A burly man with an impressive beard emerges from the back, yelling something about crates until he sees Dean.

 

“Hello, sir,” he grins at Dean, his soft Southern lilt in complete opposition to his appearance, “How are you this fine afternoon?”

 

“Not bad.” Dean gives him a half smile and wonders why he feels disappointed that what had happened must have been in his imagination.

 

“Well, we usually don’t get customers roun’ this time, but my cashier’ll be with ya shortly. He’s jus’ putting away some crates we just got delivered in the back.”

 

The man disappears back into the kitchen and Dean takes the time to look at the menu hanging on the wall behind the counter. It’s a short menu. Simple. All the barbeque classics make an appearance, and there’s a bunch of yellow stars pasted around the menu item “fried pickles.” A haphazardly scribbled ‘ _fan favorite’_ is draped around the stars, slightly lopsided. Dean raises his eyebrows.

 

“See something you like?”

 

Dean jerks because there’s no mistaking it this time. He turns to face the same man that greeted him three days ago. The man who is so unmistakably _Cas_ … Dean is left speechless and gaping once again.  Except this time, he doesn’t run away.

 

“Would you like to purchase another peach?” The man asks, eyebrow raised. “Or are you actually thinking of trying barbeque this time?”

 

Dean mouths around words that he can’t seem to get out of his throat before he coughs slightly. “You remember me?”

 

“You’re hard to forget.” Cas, _no ‘ **James**_ ,’ smiles at him and leans his elbows against the counter in front of him.

 

It sounds so suspiciously like flirting that Dean has even more trouble deciding what to say next. Here he is, facing down someone he thought was _dead_ , whose blue eyes are twinkling at him like the light never left them.

 

“A-am I?” Dean curses the way his voice shakes as he moves closer to the counter.

 

“It’s hard to forget someone who comes into a barbeque hut and decides to buy a peach instead of meat.” He straightens up, laughter making his voice light.

 

Dean lets out a nervous bark of a laugh and lifts his hand to cover his mouth, embarrassed. “I, uh, I’ll get two orders of ribs this time.”

 

“We have two famous sauces. The owner couldn’t decide which side of his family’s recipes was better. Which one would you like?”

 

“Uh…” Dean glances to the menu, “The, uh, ‘house of blues special?’”

 

“That’s a good choice.” Cas smiles at him. “Anything else?”

 

“Those come with salad?”

 

“And our famous vinegar coleslaw.”

 

“Great.” Dean picks out a few peaches. “These too.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Everything out of his mouth is so unequivocally _Cas_ , that Dean can’t seem to stop himself from smiling. His breath is nervous and shaky, and his body feels like he’s on pins and needles. But Cas, or some Cas-shaped-imitation, is smiling at him across the counter and everything is just a little bit lighter. Even in the face of heavy, Southern humidity and the mysterious disappearance of the Leviathans.

 

“Do a lot of barbeque places down here have peaches as a menu item?” Dean teases as Cas finishes writing down his order and slips it through the kitchen window.

 

Cas blushes, for some reason, as he turns to face Dean. “I grow them, actually. I brought them in for Beau.” Dean furrows his eyebrows, confused. “Beau is the chef. A customer mistook the basket as something we were selling, and the peaches were so successful that day, that Beau told me to bring them in again. It’s strange.” Cas runs his fingers over some of the peaches. “The tree at my home seems to continually bear fruit. It almost goes against nature.”

 

Now _that_ has Dean’s attention. “ _Really.”_ He inclines his head, keeping his eyes locked on Cas, curious.

 

“Indeed.” He replies, softly, putting Dean’s requested peaches in a paper bag. He meets Dean’s eyes, hopeful. “If you would like to see…”

 

“I would.” Dean replies quickly, before he can think about why this is a bad idea. “ _Very much._ ”

 

“Maybe this Sunday? The shop is closed on Sundays.”

 

“Yeah, sure.” Dean replies, nervous and shuffling his feet slightly. “That sounds good.”

 

“Great. So I’ll… see you then, uhm…”

 

“Oh! Dean. My name’s Dean.”

 

Cas hands him a bag that ‘Beau’ had just pushed through the window, and pushes the bag of peaches towards him on the counter with a soft, private smile. “Here you are. I’ll see you on Sunday then, Dean.”

 

Dean’s heart stutters when Cas says his name and right after that realization he pushes it down in a last ditch attempt at repression. “See you then,” he murmurs, voice shy and soft.

 

The second he leaves the shop with his bags of barbeque, which smell _awesome_ , by the way, he wants to go back. He has so many questions and he’s so out of his depth, but Cas, _it’s definitely Cas_ , is in there and he’s _alive_ and it’s more than Dean could have hoped for. But he’s worried. He’s worried that the Leviathans will find him and exact their revenge… or that something else of the supernatural vein will figure out what Cas really is and hurt him before he can figure out how to defend himself.

 

But most of all, some secret part of him that he’s kept hidden for so long, wants to selfishly keep Cas all to himself. Keep him safe… keep him as happy and carefree as he had appeared.

 

If Dean can keep his hunting life out of the picture for just a little while, he might be able to accomplish that.

 

***

 

Dean slams the giant bag of food in front of where Sam had fallen asleep, draped across a book on the kitchen table. He jerks awake at the noise and flings a dangerously long limb out in retaliation, narrowly missing Dean’s vulnerable face.

 

“Food’s up.”

 

“Wha’ is it?” Sam slurs, sleepily.

 

“Barbeque.” Dean grins roguishly.

 

“Oh _god_.” Sam slams his face back down onto the table and his voice becomes muffled. “M’ genn’ some ‘fin else.”

 

“What was that, princess? Can’t hear you.” Dean unpacks the bag of food and spreads it on the table in front of them. It still smells amazing, and Dean could try to attempt deciphering the old microwave to heat the food back up, but, honestly, it looks too good to wait.

 

“I’m getting something else.” Sam clarifies, glaring at Dean.

 

“Calm down, Samantha. I got you a salad. In fact, I got us _both_ salads, and I’m feeling incredibly generous. You can have mine.”

 

Sam looks down at the open containers of food, contemplation growing on his face.

 

“You sure you don’t want to try a rib?” Dean raises a curious eyebrow and holds up a stick of perfectly cooked meat.

 

Sam eyes the second container of ribs and pulls it towards him slowly.

 

“Actually smells pretty good…”

 

Dean ignores Sam’s barbeque epiphany and decides to start his own. He tears into the strip of meat with his teeth and moans aloud at the flavor that explodes in his mouth.

 

“Oh my _god._ ” He mumbles through the food in his mouth. “This is _amazing._ ”

 

“Gross, Dean.” Sam wrinkles his nose at the bits of food that fall from Dean’s mouth during his declarations and tears a rib from his own rack.

 

Dean ignores him because it’s hard to concentrate on anything but the amazing explosion on flavor on his tongue. A sweet tang erupts on his tongue along with the heat of mustard seed and the amazing smell of whatever wood Beau uses in the pit.

 

“This is really good, Dean. Wow.” Sam muses, finishing his first bite. “It doesn’t taste hickory smoked though.”

 

“Yeah, I’ve no idea.” Dean mumbles through another mouthful of meat. “Forgot to ask. I’ll ask on Sunday.”

 

“Sunday?”

 

Dean freezes. “Uh…” He takes another bite and chews it to come up with an explanation that would satisfy Sam’s curiosity. “They have a special on Sundays.”

 

“What is it?” Sam asks, trying some coleslaw.

 

“Uh, a pie eating contest.” Dean lies, saying the first thing he could think of that would convince Sam to be as far from the barbeque place on Sunday as possible.

 

“Ugh, gross. Count me out. I’ve had enough years of seeing you gorge yourself on pie.” Sam groans. “Bring me back some food though. Do they have pulled pork?”

 

“Yep.” Dean smacks his lips to get at the drops of delicious barbeque sauce that had missed his mouth.


	4. Ashore

_“’Why is it,’ he said, one time, at the subway entrance, ‘I feel I've known you so many years?’  
‘Because I like you,’ she said, ‘and I don't want anything from you.’”_

-Ray Bradbury, _Fahrenheit 451_

 

Dean loves the city. He’ll never admit it to Sam, _pride_ and all that, but something about Savannah makes Dean want to stay. Of course, he’s on his way to see Cas, but there are also sunsets that fade behind Spanish moss, people who smile on the street, muffled sounds of jazz in the evening, and the smell of amazing food is always heavy in the humid air. As it turns out, it’s what Sam wanted all along: a nice quiet place to do research where they could live in an actual house for once. Dean wonders if the whole trip was a ruse, and if perhaps his wily brother had tricked him into domesticity. But each time the thought crosses his mind, he realizes he doesn’t care. He feels strangely relaxed, and it should scare him… but it doesn’t.

 

What does scare him, however, is the prospect of seeing Cas again. There is still a persistent part of his mind that insists none of this is real, purely because of the impossibility of the situation. As Dean approaches the barbeque shack, he forces his mind clear of all the questions. He desperately wants to know how Cas made it to Georgia from freaking _Bootbock, Kansas_ , and how the hell he even got a job, but Dean figures those questions can wait until he figures out the extent of Cas’ memory loss. Today, they’re going to go pick peaches and sit outside by a peach tree, and Dean tries desperately to convince himself that it’s not a date, but his chest feels warm nonetheless.

 

_It’s probably just the heat._

 

Cas is standing in front of the barbeque hut when Dean arrives. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and light pants and he looks so _cool_ , but Dean is immediately flushed with heat when he sees him. He can feel the flush creeping up the back of his neck and he takes a deep breath to keep it from traitorously spreading to his cheeks. He hops out of the Impala to greet Cas.

 

“You drove?” Cas watches Dean get out of the car with a strange look on his face that sends heat spiraling through Dean’s spine.

 

“Uh, yeah.” Dean replies, nudging one of the Impala’s tires with his foot. “This here’s my baby. Wasn’t sure how far your place was so I figured I would drive.”

 

“I don’t have a car.” Cas says, walking over to the Impala and running his fingers over the hood. “Yours is very beautiful.”

 

Dean’s heart skips a beat as he watches Cas’ slender fingers trail over the hood of the Impala, as if he had never seen it before. It was so _honest_. And it made Dean wonder if this is what Cas would have been like had they met under different circumstances.

 

Whatever circumstances they were meeting under now made things much easier. Dean felt free enough to admit that Cas was important. That Cas was a fucking _gift_. And he chooses continually to be in Dean’s company, and Dean finds it so unbelievably incomprehensible, but he doesn’t know where he would be without it. He wants so desperately to explore the side of himself that was exposed the instant he’d seen Cas standing at a register, looking happy and at peace; the part of himself that has always stayed so hidden, obscured by repression. He wants to let himself _feel_ something for once.

 

“Shall we?” Dean asks, pulling the passenger door open.

 

“I usually walk to work.” Cas muses, turning to Dean with a half smile. “It’s calming. But I do wonder what it is like to ride in this car.”

 

“How far is your place?” Dean asks, still wondering how he had even managed to find a place to live. Let alone a place with a fully fruiting peach tree.

 

“Eight miles. More or less.” Cas muses, his gaze soft as it travels over Dean’s body. “Forgive my staring.” Cas smiles up at him. “You are very aesthetically pleasing.”

 

Dean feels his cheeks flame fire engine red as he gapes like a fish in the face of Cas’ sudden overt flirtatiousness. “Wh-wha… I, uh…” Dean rubs his hand over the back of his neck and leans one hand on the Impala. An attempt to look cool, but really he ends up looking like a lopsided idiot. “So, eight miles, huh. You really walk eight miles every day?”

 

“Yes. I get up very early.” Cas replies, gravely. “I find that I have trouble sleeping for longer than two hours at a time. Walking is very relaxing for me. More so than sleeping, even.”

 

“ _Yeah, no shit._ ” Dean mumbles under his breath. “Here, get in the car. You’re directing me to your place. I ain’t walking eight miles. No matter how much sleep I got last night.”

 

They drive in silence. Dean feels Cas’ presence next to him as an intense, almost burning, heat; a beating heart that feels so close to his own. It makes him shudder. He feels like he is so quickly losing control… losing his grasp on everything in his mind. He wants to ask Cas _something._ He wants to _shake_ the answers out of him. He holds the steering wheel too tight and his hands hurt. His nails dig into his skin in sharp little jabs and he winces and pulls back.

 

“Dean?” Cas asks. “Are you alright?”

 

“Yeah, fine.” Dean sighs. “Where to?”

 

“The next left.” Cas says, calm and collected and Dean feels better just hearing him speak. “I’ll take you to a place where it never rains and crops never die.”

 

Dean furrows his eyebrows and squints slightly, glancing at Cas, but he’s passively staring out the window. Dean wonders if Cas knows he just quoted something from Hayday. Dean smiles and shakes his head, laughter in his chest.

 

“Alright Cas, lead the way.”

 

“That would be impossible, as you are the driver.” Cas says, a smile evident in his tone.

 

Dean grins at him even though Cas’ gaze remains fixed on something outside of the window as they speed by four-story buildings and ornate doors with iron balconies.

 

It is quiet for a few more minutes, and peaceful, as they drive further out through the outskirts of Savannah. The landscape begins to roll into grassier fields and there are weeping willows draping over sidewalks. Dean feels an inescapable urge to go explore the area. He wants to hold Cas’ hand in his own and drag him through the hanging vines. He wants to laugh like he’s in a romantic comedy. He wants to burn Savannah to the ground for making him feel this way.

 

“What was it you called me the first day we met?” Cas asks, simply. “Oh, and take a right here.”

 

“What?” Dean jerks the steering wheel to the right but he barely makes the turn. And he definitely doesn’t do it safely. He’s too busy focusing on whatever Cas just said. “Sorry, I, uh, lost it there for a second.”

 

Cas laughs. It’s a light, airy, innocent thing that sounds so foreign coming out of Cas’ mouth… And, yet, it suits him so well that Dean would do anything to make that sound happen again.

 

“Do you do that often?” Cas asks, that soft lilt of laughter still painted over his dulcet tones. “’Space out?’”

 

Dean can hear the air quotes without needing to see them and he smiles a painful smile at that memory of his Cas. But this one is his too, right? Or, at the very least, he has chosen Dean to sit next to… to share peaches with… to invite into his home and into his life…

 

“I try my very best not to do it too often. Sammy complains that I’ll crash the car one day.”

 

“Sammy is… your boyfriend?” The laughter from Cas’ voice is completely gone, and his hands clench in his lap. Dean never wants to hear such sobriety in Cas’ voice ever again.

 

“No. _God_ no.” Dean swipes the air in the car with his hand in disgust. “Sammy’s my brother. Younger brother.”

 

Dean ignores the part of himself that hurts when he realizes Cas doesn’t know this. Cas doesn’t know _Sam._ He’s never met the most important part of Dean. The part of Dean that kept him sane through hell. The part that gave Cas something to _save_. Dean shivers slightly at the thought that he is sitting here with all of these memories, while Cas sits innocent and oblivious next to him.

 

“Ignorance is bliss.” Dean murmurs.

 

“What?”

 

“Oh, uh nothing.” Dean shakes his head. “What were, uh… You were saying something, right?”

 

“Yes, I was asking after Sam. Is he with you here? In Savannah?”

 

“Yep. We’ve got a, uh… a pretty good rental house down near Monterey Square. Family friend of ours set us up real nice.” Dean nods. It’s a safe conversation. Not the one he needs to have, but he doesn’t know how to force the one he needs to have. So he drives, and he talks. Maybe, if they talk long enough, everything will just come out on its own. Effortless.

 

“That must be wonderful.” Cas smiles and folds his hands in his lap. “I wish I knew more about my family.”

 

_That’s_ what Dean wants to hear. “Your family? Do you not know them?”

 

“I seem to be experiencing a memory lapse.” Cas says, quietly. “It makes me sound a bit crazy, but I promise you, I am quite sane.”

 

“Hey, man, believe me. I’ve come across some insane people in my travels.” Dean glances at Cas out of the corner of his eye, trying to catch a conspiratorial glance. “You’re definitely not one of ‘em.”

 

“That is… very pleasing to know.” Cas smiles and meets Dean’s glance shyly. “Would it be possible for you to, uhm… answer my question? From before. I’m very curious about the name.”

 

“What name?” Dean is driving down a windy road and he tries to focus on what Cas is saying, and also not hitting a tree.

 

“The name you called me when you first saw me. It _was_ a name, right? It started with a ‘c’…. Oh, uh, my place is the next right. The one with the gate.”

 

Dean gapes. He turns into the driveway, which is long and lined haphazardly with overgrown trees. He stops the car in front of an enormous gate, faded, mossy lettering arch above them in graceful stone. It’s a gate that belongs in front of a fucking _mansion_ , and Dean’s pretty sure he can make out the word ‘plantation’ carved into the impenetrable, curving stone.

 

“Holy shit.” Dean whispers. “Cas. I called you Cas.”

 

“I like that name.” Cas muses. “What possessed you to call me that though? My nametag says James…”

 

“You looked like someone I knew once. A long time ago.” Dean starts the car again and drives through the gate, wondering how the hell Cas found this place. “I lost myself for a minute and I thought you were him. I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be.” Cas says. “I rather liked it. More than my current name, that is.”

 

Dean snorts at that because it’s exactly the kind of thing Cas would say. And it makes Dean feel like less of a creep. Makes him feel less like he’s manipulating some strange remnant of Cas and more like Cas is whole, and healthy, and wants to be with him. It feels _okay_.

 

“I do not feel attached to my current name. Beau just calls me ‘blue eyes’ because when I first started working there I didn’t have a name at all.” Cas continues, ignoring Dean’s snort. “It wasn’t until an older woman came into our shop that my lack of a name became an issue. She insisted that a good southern boy needs a ‘strong, southern name.’”

 

Dean let out a breathless laugh as Cas did air quotes with two fingers. _Is this one of those life questions? Like, how much is memory worth to our individuality and if we lose those memories, are we still the same person?_ Dean hates questions like that, but it seems like hanging around Cas is going to necessitate those kinds of questions.

 

“So she decided to call you James?” Dean asked.

 

“Yes.” Cas says. “She seemed so adamant, and she really is a wonderful lady. I didn’t want to disappoint her.”

 

“Yeah, I get that.” Dean agrees, not really getting it at all.

 

“Do you think you could call me by that other name?” Cas asks, shyly, looking at his hands in his lap as they make their way down the extremely long driveway.

 

“C-Cas?” Dean stutters, hands slipping slightly on the wheel. “I-I don’t… uh…”

 

“When you say that name I feel something inside.” Cas muses. “I feel… recognition. It feels the way one should feel when they hear a name they identify with. I think I identify with it.” Cas nods slightly. “Yes.”

 

“A-are you sure? I mean, you don’t want to go disappointing your old lady friend…” Dean tries to make light of this situation, but really he feels like he’s going to have a heart attack at any moment.

 

“I will continue to go by James at the barbeque hut.” Cas smiles and flushes slightly. “But perhaps you could call me… ‘ _Cas._ ’ It will be something only between us.”

 

Dean nods jerkily because there is not a bone in his body that could deny that request. And it reminds him, painfully, of the first day he called Cas by his nickname. And the way the angel had so easily accepted it… as if anything Dean wanted to call him was acceptable. To find out that Cas’ attachment to the name ran this deep… Dean feels more and more of his control slipping with each passing moment. He truly doesn’t know if he should tell Cas what happened… or just leave things to unfold by themselves. _Is he putting Cas in more danger by staying?_

 

Dean is suddenly jerked from his thoughts as a building becomes visible in the distance. It’s completely enormous and it looms over them as they drive over the dirt paved, overgrown driveway. There’s a broken fountain that sits in the middle of what was once a roundabout and Dean parks the Impala, looking out at the enormous building in awe. He whips his head to Cas who is already getting out of the car.

 

“This is yours?!” Dean cries, only moderately hysterical. Under the circumstances, he feels he is granted a certain amount of hysteria.

 

“Not… exactly.” Cas says before he shuts the door.

 

Dean jumps out of the car and follows Cas through the unkempt lawn. He shoves a piece of Spanish moss out of his face and spits whatever he ate of it onto the ground as he chases after Cas.

 

“So… you’re trespassing?” Dean still sounds a little bit like he’s losing his mind, but less so than before.

 

“No one lives here.” Cas says simply.

 

“So you’re trespassing.” Dean sighs to himself. “Alright. Lead me to this peach tree.”

 

Cas turns around, framed by Spanish moss and green, _so much green_. A genuine smile spreads over his face and Dean can’t help but grin stupidly back. Cas looks like a child, so pure and innocently happy… And in that moment, it’s okay that Dean doesn’t tell him about his memories. Because Cas deserves this. He deserves this ignorance and the chance to be happy. He only ever did what he did because of Dean – something Dean has trouble admitting on even his absolute best days – and Dean thinks that the amount of issues that obviously comes with… grants you a few free passes to fuck things up. It’s easy for Dean to convince himself of this belief when he’s standing with a happy, smiling Cas in the middle of an overgrown Georgia plantation, the sun beating down on them in hazy beams through curtains of heavy, green trees and pale moss.

 

“It’s very, um, _green_ here.” Dean says, smirking as he looks around at draping trees and lush grass.

 

Cas smiles. “Wait until you see the garden. Follow me.” Cas says, leading Dean through more ridiculous curtains of Spanish moss… and Dean would almost never want to see the stuff again if it wasn’t so fucking pretty.

 

If the front yard of the property is overgrown, it’s _nothing_ compared to the back. But in terms of beauty, the backyard is _astonishing_. It’s beyond anything Dean’s ever seen in his life. It’s nearly the middle of august… but where there should be green, flowerless plants, there is vibrant color in the form of thousands of flowers. Each rose bush is overflowing with ripe buds that swirl outward from their stems, velvet-soft petals in a perfect execution of the golden ratio. There are tall plants with strange looking blue and purple flowers that look stiff, but strangely graceful, like the flowers may grow wings and fly into the sky. There are countless others that grow into each other, like a field of wild flowers… And, even in the chaos, there is a sense of impenetrable grand design. Dean’s eyes are so wide he feels like they might pop out of his skull.

 

“Isn’t it… kind of late for flower season?” Dean asks, certainly not an expert on the habits of southern flowering patterns.

 

“I believe so.” Cas replies, gazing back at Dean over his shoulder. “It was not like this when I arrived. But it is why I was allowed to stay.”

 

“What do you mean?” Dean carefully navigates his way around a particularly overgrown and intensely thorny rosebush.

 

“Marjorie Duncan.” Cas says, turning to Dean as they walk together. Dean ignores the way their sides casually brush with every other step.

 

“Who?”

 

“She is the woman who came into the barbeque hut and decided that I needed a proper name.” Cas says, a fond smile on his face. “She is an extremely intelligent woman and it didn’t take her long to deduce that, from my lack of a name, I also lacked a place to live. She made me an offer.” Cas gestures at the wide expanse of flowering land as it flows into a beautiful field of thick southern grass. “This plantation has been in her family’s possession since before the years of the Civil War. She asked if I knew how to care for land and tend gardens, because it was falling into disrepair. She told me that this place holds painful memories for her family, but something called ‘Southern Values’ doesn’t allow her to give it up to the state. She said she had a good feeling about me.” Cas smiles to himself like he’s sheepishly proud of that fact. “She was extremely surprised when she came to visit the other day and saw the flowers, but after her shock wore off she nodded to herself and patted me on the shoulder. She told me that she always knew I was special.”

 

“Trust me, man. Anyone who can do this to a garden over the course of a few weeks is definitely some kind of special.” Dean looks around at the impossible garden and wonders if Cas’ latent grace is manifesting in the plants. _Will it leave a mark? Will something supernatural be able to detect it and find Cas?_ Dean shakes his head. As far as anyone else knows, Cas is dead. And, as far as Dean knows, Cas is happy and safe. That’s all that matters right now.

 

“A few days.” Cas corrects Dean.

 

“What?” Dean furrows his brow in confusion, having gotten lost in his own train of thought.

 

“This happened to the garden over the course of a few days.”

 

Dean turns to face Cas with wide eyes. “Are you kidding?” Cas squints at him and Dean can’t help the shy smile that relaxes onto his own face at the sight. “You’re not kidding.” Dean lets out a soft laugh. “Holy shit, man, you are something else.”

 

“So are you, Dean.” Cas smiles at him like that’s something completely normal to say, and not something that should make Dean’s heart feel like it’s out of control, beating out of his chest as his hand twitches with the urge to curl a stray piece of Cas’ hair behind his ear.

 

Dean coughs slightly to cover up the tremor in his voice. “Th-thanks, man.”

 

“Your eyes are very beautiful.” Cas says, gazing at Dean’s eyes like they’re an astounding display at a museum. “I feel very much at peace when I look at them.” Cas blushes and turns away, like he knows he went too far with that declaration, and he shyly twists his hands together before letting them fall to his sides. He tilts his head over his shoulder. “Will you follow me?”

 

Dean almost asks where, but realizes it doesn’t matter. He smiles, a heavy blush still spread over his cheeks from Cas’ irrepressible honesty. “Yeah. I’ll follow you.”

 

They make their way through the paths between the flowers, so many scents weigh heavily on their noses, but for Dean, it is the light scent of roses that eclipses all the rest. There is a sweetness in the air too. It makes him want to reach out and hold Cas’ hand, maybe see if there are callouses from gardening… or perhaps they are soft with grace. Smooth to the touch, and sweet. If Dean were to perhaps press his lips to the graceful fingers that Cas uses to gesture at things as they walk.

 

He is saying the names of flowers as if he has a botanical dictionary in his mind. And perhaps he does, Dean thinks to himself. Perhaps his memory loss is not of the intellectual variety, but of the emotional. He seems exceptionally smart, but in an unknowing sense. As if he believes that all typical humans should know that a tall flower with a strange bud is called a ‘snapdragon’ or, as it is formally known, ‘Antirrhinum.’ Dean thinks the words sound beautiful coming from Cas’ lips, and he tries to wrap his own lips around the words after Cas says each one; repeating them in his mind and mouthing them without sound. Dean doesn’t feel like he can do the names justice.

 

“We’re here.” Cas says, turning to Dean with a grin.

 

‘Here’ is a part of the property that isn’t overflowing in flowers. Instead, short green grass ripples in the rare summer breeze and a wide tree stands alone, brimming with beautiful white flowers that seem as delicate in texture as they are transitory.

 

“This is my peach tree.”

 

Cas sounds so proud as he stares up at the lone tree, reaching up to play with a bud delicately between his fingers. Dean wishes he had a camera. He tries to commit the sight to memory, because seeing Cas like this is a gift. In that moment, it doesn’t matter that Cas’ memory is gone. This, for Dean, is how Cas should be.

 

“Where are all the peaches?” Dean asks, teasingly.

 

“I picked all of them for Beau’s restaurant.” Cas smiles and picks a bud of the tree. It unfolds in his palm as he holds it out to Dean. “It has to flower before it can bear fruit again.”

 

“Wait… how long does it take the peaches to grow, exactly?” Dean asks, eyes wide.

 

“The buds will probably fall sometime tonight and the peaches will start growing tomorrow.” Cas says, simply. “They take a day to fully ripen, usually. I think Beau believes I have an orchard of peach trees. But I just have this one.”

 

“Holy shit.” Dean whispers, fingers reaching to touch the bud in Cas’ open palm. “You know, uh, Cas… not a lot of peach trees grow the way yours does.”

 

“Oh, yes.” Cas nods, standing much closer to Dean than he had been before and Dean feels his breathing speed up a bit. “I know this one is special. I can feel something within it that vibrates with life. I just nurture it and hope it bears fruit.”

 

“You’re good at that, I think.” Dean says, before he can even think. “Giving life to things.”

 

Cas looks up at him, slightly awed. Dean can tell Cas’ eyes are trying to get lost in his own. As much as they held deep, impenetrable stares before _everything_ , this one feels different. It’s probably something in the way that Cas still stares at Dean like he’s important. Like he _means_ something. And this Cas doesn’t even know their history. It should feel like they’re on unequal terms, but there’s something about it that feels natural. Like this is what it would be like if Dean had met Cas without all the baggage, without all the bullshit and the repression and the fear…

 

Dean almost pulls back when Cas reaches out a hand towards his face, but he forces himself to hold Cas’ gaze and stay still. He moves the bud between his fingers and holds it near Dean’s cheekbone. Velvet-soft, white petals caress his skin and Cas is looking where the flower makes contact with his skin. Dean gazes down at Cas, brow furrowed, but his eyes are soft, his lips parted and relaxed. Cas slips the flower behind his ear, delicately, and pulls back. His hand brushes Dean’s cheek as he pulls away. It’s a light touch that has Dean leaning in for more until he realizes himself and straightens his neck.

 

Dean doesn’t think he’s ever flushed so much in his life. He’s going to give himself a complex or something. His face feels hot, his ears feel hot and he licks his lips nervously while Cas stares up at him with a glowing smile like this is the first time he’s seen a night sky covered in stars… or someone told him that heaven truly exists. Dean doesn’t have the heart to move the flower away from his ear. He stands unnaturally still, for fear of displacing Cas’ work.

 

“How does it look?” Dean should feel like an idiot, but Cas’ sincerity makes things he would have balked at in the past seem suddenly okay. It’s worth it to see Cas smile at him like there are no worries in the world.

 

“It looks good.” Cas smiles, eyes bright. And oh god did Dean miss that. He missed the shining blue of Cas’ eyes, filled with so much rich emotion… But there’s something in them now that makes them even more stunning. There’s a life in them. They look like they’ve _lived_. Cas looks at home in his body, and his eyes feel like a truer connection than they ever were before.

 

“You’re such a girl.” Dean murmurs, shyly. There’s no malice in it, but Dean doesn’t know what else to say here.

 

Dean knows that he wants to kiss Cas. That much he’s known ever since Cas disappeared into the river. When Dean had been faced with the prospect of never seeing those blue eyes glinting back at him… he had admitted to himself a few other things he would have missed about Cas. _Missed chances_ and all that.

 

But he doesn’t know what to do in this situation. He wants to hold Cas, and touch him, make sure he’s really there… but would Cas want that? If he was truly in his right mind? Dean has no idea. He’s not even sure what the Cas standing in front of him wants. He seems content to stare at Dean and push peach blossoms into his hair. A shiver of wind flows through the area and ruffles the tree. A shower of blossoms falls over them and Dean wants to scoff at the fact that he feels like he’s in a cheesy romantic movie, but flower blossoms land in Cas’ dark hair like eternal snowflakes. And Dean thinks he looks so beautiful in that moment, he can’t help but reach out and touch Cas’ cheek with his hand.  He stares at that point of contact between their skin, breath catching as he drags his thumb over Cas’ cheekbone. He remembers the same area being covered in sores when Cas had been God. It’s soft and smooth, sun-kissed from time spent in the gardens.

 

Cas’ skin flushes underneath his touch and Dean is overcome by the desire to see that flush spread everywhere else. To see if he drags his finger… if perhaps the flush will follow that trail. He holds back his urge. It’s too much. And too soon. Even with the way Cas is staring at him… it still feels like a catch 22 between betrayals and ‘this is right.’

 

“I like Beau.” Cas says suddenly, and Dean pulls back because, of all the things Cas could have said in that moment, that had been the least expected of all of them.

 

Dean frowns in confusion, hand hovering over Cas’ skin before he pulls away completely.

 

“He is friendly.” Cas continues. “He showed me compassion and gave me a job, and a name, when no one else would.”

 

And doesn’t that just make Dean feel like shit. Because he should have been there. _He **would** have been there_. He should have been there when Cas climbed out of that river, confused and amnesiac. And he should have been there to give Cas a place to live. He should have been there for _Cas_.

 

“And I like Marjorie.” Cas continues, ignoring Dean’s stormy look. “She is a nice lady, I hope you have a chance to meet her.”

 

Dean nods, looking at his feet and shuffling slightly. He’s not sure where Cas is going with all this.

 

“Dean.” Cas’ voice sounds intense and insecure all at once and it makes Dean look up. Cas is staring at him, earnest and determined, cheeks flushed in the late afternoon sunlight. “But you are the first person I’ve felt connected to. I felt something when I saw you that first day. I wanted… to be near you for some reason. You looked angry and upset, but I wanted so desperately for you to stay in that restaurant. I don’t know what I’m feeling and it _terrifies_ me. I have no memories from before three weeks ago and I worry constantly that I’ve left something important behind.”

 

“Cas…” Dean feels his chest ache as Cas stands in front of him, fists clenched, and so intensely honest he has no idea what to do with everything he’s hearing.

 

“Dean, when you have been with me… I don’t feel like I’m forgetting anything anymore.” Cas says. “I feel like I’m _remembering_.”

 

“Shit, _Cas_ , I – “ Dean rubs a hand over his eyes and finds, to his horror, that it comes back wet with unshed tears.

 

Cas pulls back, suddenly, turning to stare at the peach tree. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t look at Dean. “That was ‘ _too much_.’ Wasn’t it? Beau tells me I have the social skills of a teaspoon sometimes. He laughs when he says it, but I believe he is serious. I’m not sure how to proceed in… situations like this.”

 

Dean takes a deep breath. “Situations like what?” His voice has a higher octave than usual and it’s completely and utterly embarrassing.

 

“Where there is a wish for… romantic involvement.” Cas is fully turned away from him now, looking down towards the ground, his voice a flustered murmur.

 

Dean coughs, heat spreading over the back of his neck. He rubs at it with his hand as he stutters out an answer. “I, uh… you want… Is that what you want?” Dean hasn’t felt this shy since high school.

 

“I – I’m not sure.” Cas says softly, still not facing Dean. “I don’t think I’ve ever had any feelings like this before. Something about you is unique. I see people on the streets here everyday and it’s almost like they don’t exist to me. And then you walk into the store one day and I… I couldn’t breathe for a moment. It actually felt like a warmth inside of me. Especially when I looked at your eyes. Your eyes are very warm.”

 

Dean flushes and wonders if Cas would be saying all of this if he had his memories.

 

“Thank you.” Dean replies, his voice still unrecognizable to him. _God, what is this place doing to him…_

 

Cas suddenly spins to face him, altogether too close and too far away at once. He focuses his eyes on Dean’s. “What does one do? When they want to pursue a romantic relationship.”

 

“They, uh…” Dean rubs his neck and averts his gaze from Cas’ intensity. “They usually go on dates and, uh… stuff.” Dean feels shy and out of his depth as he stands under the tree with Cas. “This is, uhm… a pretty good start actually. You kinda asked me on a date, Cas.”

 

“And did you accept?” Cas asks, eyes widening ever so slightly. “Did you accept… thinking it was a date?”

 

“I, uh, I wasn’t sure.” Dean blushes. “But I’d like it to be, maybe, if it’s cool with you…”

 

“I think it would be very ‘ _cool._ ’” Cas smiles like a complete nerd and brings his body closer to Dean’s.

 

“You, dork.” Dean smiles at him affectionately. “You gotta stop with those air quotes.”

 

“Beau uses them quite frequently.” Cas says, blushing. “I think they’re endearing.”

 

“Hey,” Dean places two fingers under Cas’ chin to catch his gaze. “I think so too.”

 

“They’re very useful for conveying hidden meanings and intentions in sentences.”

 

“Yeah.” Dean agrees, softly, reluctantly pulling his hand away from Cas’ face in favor of brushing peach blossoms out of Cas’ hair. If he lets his hands linger to mess up the locks a little bit more, no one else will ever know.

 

“So, what else do people do on ‘dates?’” Cas asks.

 

Cas’ face is so close to his. And his lips are full and bitten a soft pink and Dean wants to kiss him more than anything, but it feels like too much. It feels so heavy and Dean can’t stop dwelling on the idea so he pulls away with a sharp intake of breath and runs a hand over his face. He looks back at the overflowing gardens and is overcome with the desire to do something he’s always been desperate for… He wants it so badly that he’s embarrassed and shy and he takes a few more moments to gather his courage before turning back to Cas.

 

“I haven’t… been on very many dates.” Dean admits, nervously.

 

“Neither have I.” Cas smiles at him, mischievousness glinting in his eyes. It makes Dean’s heart stutter.

 

“There’s something…” Dean’s hand twitches where it rests at his side. “People, uh… people hold hands sometimes.” Dean feels an irrepressible blush spread over his cheeks.

 

“You’re blushing.” Cas is grinning at him like he’s been given a gift. Or really great blackmail.

 

“You are too, you dork.” Dean retorts, trying to keep his face stern but failing as a ridiculous smile stretches his flushed cheeks.

 

“I am.” Cas replies. “You’re the only one who seems to elicit this reaction from me. It feels bizarre. But it’s exhilarating.”

 

“Yeah.” Dean replies, a little breathless. _That’s a perfect way to describe it._

 

“So, would you like to?” Cas glances down at Dean’s hand. “Hold hands, that is.”

 

“Yes.” Dean’s voice cracks. “ _Yes._ ”

 

Cas reaches forward and tangles their fingers together. It’s awkward at first, until their palms press together and the warmth of Cas’ hand bleeds into Dean’s. His hand is softer than the blossom pinned behind Dean’s ear. Dean’s heart feels so warm and Cas is looking at their joined hands with an expression that makes Dean’s stomach erupt in butterflies. It feels… nice.

 

“Do you feel… my stomach feels…” Cas trails off, confused.

 

“Nervous?” Dean asks, the flush on his cheeks quickly becoming permanent.

 

“I… think so.” Cas tightens his hand in Dean’s. “When I’m close to you my stomach is… upset. Like there is something swooping inside. It is difficult to describe.”

 

“People call that ‘butterflies,’” Dean explains, terribly. “I have them too.”

 

“Do you?”

 

“Yeah.” Dean breathes.

 

“They are _strange_.” Cas murmurs. “But I think I like them. When I’m with you. It’s nice to know what you’re feeling.”

 

Dean nods, looking away because it’s too much to hold Cas’ hand and hear Cas’ honest proclamations at the same time.

 

“You’re nervous, Dean.” Cas squeezes their hands together. “It’s okay.”

 

Dean nods again, but takes a deep breath and squeezes back.

 

“It feels good when you do that.” Cas gasps. “When you… hold me. The pressure is nice.”  


Dean feels something start to stir in his lower abdomen and he knows he has to slow things down. It’s an all over body heat that he’s experiencing in the face of all of this sudden expression of feelings… Such a far cry from where he had been a few days earlier, before knowing Cas was alive. He’s so fucking _grateful_ , he can bring himself to hold back much longer.

 

“Should we walk?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow in question as he turns his gaze to Cas.

 

“Is that what people do?” Cas says in reply. “When they hold hands?”

 

“Uh, sometimes. Usually, actually. People walk on beaches sometimes. Or through gardens.” Dean wants to walk on a beach with Cas. “It’s something lovers do. Romantic.”

 

“Can we swing our hands when we walk?” Cas moves their joined hands back and forth between their bodies. “Like this?”

 

“Yeah.” Dean laughs. “’Course we can.”

 

“It is a good thing we have a garden.” Cas says, pragmatically, as they begin to walk. “Since we are not fortunate enough to be at a beach.”

 

“Would you like to do that sometime?” Dean asks, hopeful as they swing their hands together. They probably look ridiculous. But the idea makes him smile. “Maybe for our next, uh… date?”

 

“Yes.” Cas replies, adamant. “You would also, I can tell. You would not have mentioned the possibility otherwise.”

 

It’s silent for a few seconds as they start to weave through the flowers once more. Dean needs to do some research on that kind of grace manifestation… but it can wait. He’s here with Cas right now. There’s nothing chasing them and they’re in a garden, holding hands like high school sweethearts.

 

“Can we go tomorrow?” Cas asks, suddenly urgent.

 

Dean laughs. “What’s the rush?”

 

“I enjoy spending time with you. We can go at sunset.” Cas keeps turning to him and smiling as he speaks. “After I finish work tomorrow evening. Sunsets are beautiful and I would love to watch one with you.”

 

“Sunsets are a really romantic thing, Cas.” Dean flushes.

 

“I can see why.” Cas agrees, earnestly. “Their colors are the colors of passion. And evening has a magic effect on people in this city. They become bright like stars. There is more emotion in the air and I can feel it sometimes. It’s contagious.”

 

Cas sounds so excited about the prospect and Dean could never deny the urge to see Cas standing in front of a body of water, hair ruffling in the wind, backlit by dying sunshine. It’s a sight he desperately wishes to see.

 

“Let’s go tomorrow then. I’ll drive.” Dean winks.

 

“I really like your car.” Cas says with a smile. “I can tell it is a very important object in your life.”

 

“She.” Dean corrects. “She’s a girl. Me and Sammy were basically raised in her.” Dean nods. “Yeah, she’s pretty important to me.”

 

“Sammy…” Cas says. “Of course. Your brother.”

 

Moments like this make Dean ache for Cas’ memory. It’s a painful reminder that this isn’t _quite_ the same Cas he fell – Dean cuts that train of thought off real quick.

 

“Yeah, he’s uh…” Dean doesn’t know if he’s ready for Sam to know about Cas. He wants to tell his brother, but telling Sam that Cas is here in Savannah means telling Sam a whole lot of other things he’s not sure if he is ready to tell. “He’s not here with me right now.”

 

“Oh.” Cas nods, understandingly. “That’s too bad. I wish I could have met him.”

 

“Hey,” Dean nudges his shoulder into Cas’ above where their hands are joined. “Not sayin’ you’ll never be able to meet him. Just… not yet.”

 

“I don’t know anything about my own family,” Cas says, letting his free hand trail over some of the taller flower bushes. “I wish I… I’m not sure what I wish.”

 

“Maybe they were dicks.” Dean mutters with a deprecating chuckle.

 

Cas furrows his brow.

 

“Nevermind.” Dean murmurs, flushing in embarrassment. He’s definitely not ready for Cas to get _those_ memories back. Zachariah was a can of worms no one would want to call a brother. No matter what supernatural species they are.

 

The rest of the walk is silent. The sky is turning orange from sunset, and it casts an unearthly glow over Cas’ face and neck… and that secret slip of skin between his neck and shoulder where his shirt has slipped away and become stuck with sweat. Dean takes a deep breath. He wants to taste Cas’ skin where it is slightly burned from sun. It is an impossible urge. Something that has made its appearance in the past… back when Dean would have balked and joked away the possibility of even holding Cas’ hand. Even though his entire being has always longed, magnetically, for some kind of contact. As he feels the way Cas’ hand relaxes into his own, he gets to know the shape of it: delicate… with long, slender fingers that hold an impossible strength. It makes Dean think about the shape of the handprint that sits, askew, on his shoulder. It used to tingle with something electric, back when Dean had first returned from hell. He feels a phantom twinge of white hot, vibrant blue that singes from the palm to the fingerprints when Cas’ hand intertwines further with his own.


	5. Horizon

_“He who treads the path of love walks a thousand meters as if it were only one.”_

-Japanese proverb

 

Sam knows. Dean can tell.

 

He may not know _exactly_ what is up with Dean, but he knows that something is. When Dean had returned the night before, flushed by sunlight and something much deeper, he had raised an eyebrow. He’d opened his mouth as if he was going to ask something, but then he closed it and asked if Dean had had a nice time. Dean had run a hand through messy hair, a lone peach blossom falling to the floor like a tell tale feather. Sam hadn’t pried any further once Dean had sheepishly nodded and murmured something about going to take a nap. Dean had missed Sam’s parting smile when he’d turned his back to head up to his room.

 

It is morning now, and Sam is staring at him across a steaming mug of coffee. He’s standing, lanky limbs stretched out as he props himself against the counter, looking a lot like an out-of-place giraffe. Dean raises an eyebrow from where he sits at the vinyl kitchen table. Sam continues to stare.

 

“What?” Dean snaps. It doesn’t come out nearly as biting as he had intended.

 

“You forgot to bring me barbeque yesterday.” Sam says, simply.

 

Dean freezes, his own coffee cup suspended where he has lifted it from the table. He recovers quickly. “Yeah, so? I didn’t know I had to play mama bird and chew your food for you and feed you in the nest.”

 

Sam just smiles like he knows a secret. He looks stupid. Dean tells him so. It just makes Sam smile more. Like a cat with a canary. It really is a terrible look on his brother’s face. Giraffes can’t smile.

 

“You really weren’t going to tell me?” Whatever Sam is referring to is making him smirk, but there’s an undertone of hurt in his tone that Dean, as a brother, could never miss.

 

“Tell you what?” Dean asks, innocently. Like he hasn’t been sneaking around old plantations and holding hands with angels.

 

“That you found him.”

 

 

“How’d you find out?” Dean asks, flatly, trying to keep the blush that seems to come out of every mention of Cas.

 

“Well, I was hungry last night, and you weren’t back with the car yet.” Sam explained, setting his coffee cup down on the table and sitting down across from Dean. “That barbeque joint is the closest appealing thing within walking distance. It was closed, but the owner was outside fixing a broken letter on the sign. He took pity on me. Made me barbeque and sat with me. I told him you were my brother and he said that his cashier had taken a liking to you.”

 

Dean inhales sharply and coughs, setting down his coffee cup before he ends up burning his arm. Or worse, his lap.

 

“When were you going to tell me you found Cas, Dean?” Sam asks, simply. There’s no accusation in his voice. There’s a subtle undertone of hurt, but mostly it just sounds like honest curiosity. Like Sam _understands_ , but he wants to hear it in Dean’s own words.

 

Dean stares back at Sam, sheepish. “I don’t know,” he replies, honestly. “I’m sorry, Sam, I just – “

 

“It’s okay.” Sam sighs. “I mean, I get it… kind of. At least, I think I get it.”

 

Dean raises an eyebrow because there’s no way Sam actually ‘ _gets it_.’

 

Sam sticks his tongue out slightly, like he’s trying to find the right words to describe what he’s thinking. “You love him.”

 

There’s less fanfare then Dean expected. Sam’s tone is so casual and honest it sounds like he’s known forever.

 

“How long’ve you…”

 

“Since that night when the truth came out about his betrayal with Crowley I think.” Sam says, turning his coffee cup idly on the table. “But I knew for sure when I saw how you dealt with his death. I, uh, I could relate.”

 

  1. Dean thinks. “I like guys,” Dean mumbles.



 

“I figured.” Sam replies, smiling.

 

“I’m not gay, I just…”

 

“Dean, it’s okay. It doesn’t matter to me who you choose. I’m your brother and I’ll always support you.”

 

“Thanks, Sam.”

 

“You seeing him again today?” Sam asks, conversationally. The heavy stuff is over.

 

“Yeah.” Dean blushes and can’t quite keep the smile off his face.

 

“You should bring him back here soon. I’d like to see him too.” Sam says. “Take your time though.”

 

“Thanks.” Dean smiles at him.

 

***

 

Dean walks up to the imposing façade of the main house. It’s deteriorated… cracked glass and sprawling moss cover the sides in a mosaic of nature. It’s intimidating. Dean eyes the lion’s head door knocker warily. As he lifts his hand the door opens. Dean is hit by the mouth-watering smell of sweet peaches. It’s almost drool-worthy. And then the door is open completely and Cas is standing in front of him sporting a wide grin and holding a glass full of what appears to be iced tea.

 

“Dean.” Cas greets him. “Marjorie is here. She brought pie.”

 

Dean’s pretty sure he’s walked into a fantasyland at this point. Cas is alive and miraculously happy, there are magic gardens, sweet iced tea, and inconceivably generous rich old ladies that let vagrants live in their forgotten plantation homes and follow up by bringing freshly baked pies.

 

“Come on, Dean.” Cas holds his hand out with a smile. “She’s in the living room.”

 

Dean slowly lifts his hand to place it in Cas’ outstretched palm and lets himself be led. The inside of the place is clean, but only on the surface. Dean supposes Cas’ grace doesn’t really do much with housework. The floors look hastily hand-scrubbed and when Dean looks down the hall he can see entrances to some rooms which definitely haven’t been touched by a can of Pledge in at least three decades. Still, it’s beautiful inside. There’s molding on the ceiling that’s carved to look like vines bearing fruit, the walls are high and beautifully structured around arched doorways, and an old chandelier hangs above a magnificent staircase and balcony.

 

“Nice place, Cas.” Dean smirks, squeezing his hand around Cas’ briefly.

 

“I haven’t been able to do much cleaning, but I do what I can.” Cas nods, seriously, as they approach one of the wider archways.

 

Cas pulls him into the room before Dean can tease him about taking everything so literally. This room is definitely the cleanest. The furniture is mostly repaired, and the windows have been polished and shined to within an inch of their life. The glass is still cracked, though. And the room is open to the air. On the far end of the room a few tree branches draped with Spanish moss have crept through the cracks in the glass. The sunlight shines warm and yellow over the furniture and a few dust particles sparkle in the air like daytime stars.

 

“This must be the famous Dean.”

 

Dean turns his head to the source of the voice. A woman he assumes to be Marjorie is standing from her place on the couch and Dean’s not sure how he missed her before. She’s tall and curvy, with wide hips and a waist cinched by a stretchy belt with a rather garish gold buckle. Her blonde hair stands out against a shockingly pink blouse, which is paired amicably with a flower-patterned pencil skirt. She, too, is holding a glass of iced tea as she walks over to them.

 

“I see why James is so entranced by you.” Marjorie’s accent is heavy and her smile is bright as she extends her hand. “You have simply marvelous eyes, young man. Almost a match for James’ pretty blue ones.” She winks. “I’m sure you’ve noticed those.”

 

“Uh, yes.” Dean quickly detaches his hand from Cas’ to shake Marjorie’s ring-covered one. “It’s so great to meet you. Cas-uh… _James_ has told me a lot about you. You’re a very generous woman.”

 

“Oh that’s just ridiculous.” Marjorie shakes her head with a laugh. “I don’t pretend to be a saint. I just do what’s right. Come, sit! I brought pie for you both and I simply will _not_ let it go uneaten.”

 

A few moments later and Dean is elbow deep in his greatest pie epiphany to date.

 

“This… is _amazing._ ” Dean exclaims between bites.

 

“My husband made it.” Marjorie smiles at Dean’s enjoyment. “I can’t bake for the life of me. And isn’t that terrible? A southern girl born and bred without the ability to make a fruit pie?”

 

“I don’t think pie-making should be a prerequisite to being Southern.” Cas replies seriously.

 

“Oh, James. Always take everything so literal.” Marjorie laughs. “Well I may not be able to make a southern pie, but I can’t shoot a southern rifle deadeye.” Marjorie winks in Dean’s direction. “So don’t go hurtin’ my James, boy. I’ll come after you.”

 

Dean gulps down the large bite of pie he was chewing and coughs. He stares at Cas who is smiling and shaking his head. “I could never hurt him, ma’am.”

 

“You look at him the way I look at my husband.” Marjorie muses. “Isn’t that the sweetest? You look like you’ve known him forever.”

 

“Feels like it.” Dean flushes and scoops another bite of delicious pie into his mouth to avoid spilling more of his not-so-secret feelings.

 

“Has the government come to your house again, Marjorie?” Cas asks, changing the subject.

 

“Yes.” Marjorie scoffs. “Stupid buffoons don’t understand what the word ‘no’ means. And they had the nerve to ask if I had any more pie!” Marjorie shakes her head, indignant.

 

“Uh… government?” Dean questions. He’s had enough experiences with the FBI to know that they might not be so keen on running into him again.

 

“It’s about this plantation.” Marjorie sighs. “The state wants to buy it from me… But there’s not a price they could put on it that would make me sell the land with all of my family’s memories inlaid in the ground and woven into these trees.” Marjorie gazes out through one of the cracked windows. “But then I let it fall to ruin like this and I can’t tell which is the lesser of the two evils. I’m just holdin’ onto something. You boys ever do that? Hold on too tight?”

 

Dean shifts uncomfortably and Cas stays patiently silent.

 

“Feels bad after a while.” Marjorie takes their silence as agreement. “Unless the thing you’re holding onto is holding you too.”

 

***

 

Marjorie leaves later that evening, to Dean’s dismay. She had been telling them stories all night about how she had rebelled against her parents as a child and run off with her boyfriend to start a joint coffee shop and fruit stand at the young age of sixteen. She ended up marrying him two years later, and they still own the coffee shop together. Being an only child has its perks, apparently, because Marjorie’s family never kicked her out of her inheritances. Even though she never wanted them to begin with.

 

“Dean…” Cas murmurs from beside him.

 

Dean pulls his gaze away from the window and looks at Cas. They’d lit a few lanterns and picked peaches in the evening dusk and Cas’ skin glows in the warm light. A mosquito flies in front of Dean’s face and he slaps at it, only to whack himself on the tip of his nose. Cas laughs.

 

“Shut up.” Dean tries to conceal his grin.

 

“That looked like it hurt quite a lot.” Cas’ eyebrows arch in mock worry. “Do you need an antiseptic?”

 

“You’re a dork.”

 

“Maybe a surgeon would be better.” Cas muses, scooting closer and eliminating the small space between them on the porch.

 

Cas’ eyes haven’t left Dean’s, and Dean feels his heartbeat pick up a bit. His breath catches when he realizes that Cas has pushed himself closer until their thighs pressed firmly together.

 

“Y-yeah. Maybe a surgeon…” Dean’s voice cracks and he lets the sentence hang. He tries desperately not to look at Cas’ lips.

 

Dean can feel the crook of Cas’ thumb pressing ever so slightly against the corner of his mouth.  It’s almost enough to make him lose it as he watches Cas’ eyes slowly gravitate to the point of contact between Dean’s parted lips and his own thumb.  Cas looks lost for a minute and Dean feels the slow, sure stroke of a finger across his lower lip until it twitches and begins to pull away.  Dean grabs Cas’ hand with his own, holding it in the air close to his face. Cas, startled by the sudden movement, locks eyes with Dean.  Cas’ eyes are a litany of emotions and Dean can’t decipher a single one.

 

Dean can’t breathe and he can’t think because Cas’ eyes are glued to his lips and suddenly they’re pressed together and Dean is reaching up to tangle his fingers in Cas’ hair as he lets out an embarrassingly needy noise against Cas’ lips. He’d be more embarrassed if he had time to think, but Cas is a force against him, his hands reaching to cradle Dean’s face in his hands as he swings one leg over Dean’s to straddle him.

 

But Cas tastes like peaches, a heady combination of sweet and sharp as their tongues tangle together. His lips are softer than the skin of a ripe peach and Dean thinks he could be happy for the rest of his life, just experiencing the feel of Cas’ lips, plush, underneath his own. It’s a hungry kiss. Messy. Their hands are covered in dirt from picking peaches, but it doesn’t stop Dean from tangling one hand in Cas’ hair and bringing the other to the back of his neck to pull him in closer. Cas gives into the urgent pressure of Dean’s hands and relaxes into him, his hands spreading over Dean’s back and clenching in his shirt, damp with sweat.

 

Before Dean can stop him, Cas is pulling back and pulling his shirt off over his head. He unbuttons Dean’s in record time and by the time their chests are pressed together, Dean’s forgetting why he should object to this. It’s only when Cas’ hand presses against the bulge in his jeans that he gasps and pulls away.

 

“C-Cas…” Dean grabs his hand to keep it at a safe distance as he tries to get his breathing under control. His voice already sounds wrecked. “Uhm… are you sure… why don’t we slow down a little.”

 

“I saw this on Beau’s television.” Cas explains, tilting his head slightly. “This is what people do when they… _want._ ”

 

Dean wants. Dean really wants. But he is so out of his depth here. _Would Cas truly be able to consent to this? Without his memories?_ Dean can’t bring himself to take that chance.

 

“Sometimes people take it slow.” Dean sighs. “It, uh… makes it better when it finally happens.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Uh… yeah.” Dean’s pretty sure he’s waited three years to kiss Cas like that and it’s the best kiss he’s ever had. By a long shot.

 

“Can we at least lay down together?” Cas asks. “It looked appealing.”

 

“Uh… you mean cuddling?” Dean blushes. “You saw that on tv?”

 

Cas nods.

 

“Sure.” Dean tries to act nonchalant but the butterflies are returning full force once again as his stomach flips in excitement.

 

“We can go in my bedroom.” Cas says, matter-of-factly, as if it doesn’t immediately get Dean’s blood rushing back due south.

 

***

 

They lie in Cas’ bed for hours, a bowl of peaches at the foot of it that Cas has sampled from at least twice now in between cuddles. Dean feels like he’s flushing all over at this point, but he’s too happy to be embarrassed.

 

Cas finishes what must be his third peach and turns to press his face against Dean’s bare chest. Dean’s breath stutters a bit as he lets one arm fall around Cas’ shoulders. Cas trails sticky fingers across his chest and Dean immediately focuses his gaze on counting vines on the ceiling until he can keep his libido in check.

 

“All night I strechted my arms across him, rivers of blood, the dark woods, singing, with all my skin and bone: Please keep him safe. Let him lay his head on my chest and we will be… like sailors, swimming in the sound of it, dashed to pieces. Makes a cathedral, him pressing against me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me…”

 

Dean shivers until he can find his voice. “You’re a sap.” There’s an unavoidable tremor in each word. Dean is shaking. He’s never felt so much in one moment.

 

“Richard Siken.”

 

“What?” Dean turns to Cas, confused.

 

“Richard Siken is a sap. Not me. He wrote those words.”

 

Dean laughs, honest and uninhibited.

 

“I feel… fiercely protective of you.” Cas says, simply, as if he is stating that the sky is blue, or it’s going to rain tomorrow. Dean doesn’t know what to do with that.

 

Neither of them speak for a while after that. Dean feels Cas’ fingers thread absently through his hair and he lets himself slump further into the warmth of Cas’ bare chest. Their legs tangle together and Dean wishes desperately that they were naked.

 

“Did I ever watch you rake leaves?”

 

Dean promptly chokes on an intake of breath and jerks up in a coughing fit. Cas’ hand appears on his back to steady him as he coughs up what could potentially be a lung and a few minor organs. Dean fights to compose himself and grabs a glass of water from the side table.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“ _Yeah-”_ Dean’s voice is embarrassingly strained and he coughs again. “Yeah m’fine. What were you talking about? Me raking leaves? In _Georgia_?”

 

“No. Not here.” Cas moves so he can meet Dean’s eyes. They’re facing each other on the bed and Cas is cross-legged. Dean is met with an unwelcome flashback to the Castiel of 2014. “In my dreams.”

 

“You… you dreamt about me?”

 

“Yes. Quite often actually.” Cas continues, looking down at his hands. “That one is by far the most frequent, however.”

 

Dean doesn’t really know what to do with that. As far as he knows, Cas has never watched him rake leaves. Hell, Dean doesn’t even think he’s ever touched a rake in his life. Motels don’t tend to demand a lot of yard maintenance.

 

“You never turn around.” Cas muses. “The dream version of myself is always very conflicted. Always waiting for you to turn around. There’s a strange sense of urgency to the whole event.”

 

Dean wants to say that it’s just a dream and they should just forget the whole thing, but the words won’t leave his tongue.

 

“What are the other dreams?” Dean asks instead, cursing himself. “The… the other dreams you had about me.”

 

Cas glances up at him and looks back to his hands. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

 

“I won’t.” Dean replies, adamant.

 

“I dream that I am an angel. Your guardian.” Cas says softly, a flush spreading over his cheeks. “I save you from hell. It’s a metaphor. …I think.”

 

Dean really isn’t sure of the protocol here. _What does he say to that? Does he tell Cas who he really is? Are Cas’ memories really coming back?_ Dean’s pretty much terrified by the answers to all of the above so he does what he does best. “Hell? You dream about hell?”

 

“Yes.” Cas replies. “Saving you from it, specifically.”

 

“Do I look like someone who needs saving?” Dean jokes.

 

“No…” Cas replies, thoughtfully. “You look like someone who is strong. Someone who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. You remind me of Atlas. Like it’s your duty. But it gets heavy sometimes doesn’t it?”

 

“Don’t psychoanalyze me.” Dean shoves Cas’ shoulder playfully. “So is the hell in your dream… accurate?”

 

“I’m… not sure how I would judge accuracy, but… it’s very frightening. Simultaneously both immeasurably hot and icy cold. It goes against the most basic concepts of physics. It makes my wings burn in a frost.”

 

Dean nods and lies back down on the bed. He needs to process this. Cas stretches out beside him and trails his fingers over Dean’s arm. Tracing veins. Dean is quiet for a long time.

 

“What if…” Dean begins, eyes trailing over the ornate carving on the ceiling. “What if you _were_ an angel?”

 

“Well, if I had to judge by my dreams… it does not seem to be a very desirable career path.” Cas chuckles. “Everything seems very complicated. There are a lot of rules I believe I disagree with.”

 

Dean forces a laugh. “How ornate are these dreams exactly?”

 

“They’re not really that ornate.” Dean feels Cas shrug next to him. “But my dream self _knows_ things. There are rules in the dream. And knowledge. It feels quite real. Even though it’s all very fuzzy when I wake up.”

 

***

 

The next day Dean goes to the barbeque shop with flowers.

 

“Dean!” Beau greets him when he swings the door open. “Good to see ya. Oh! Flowers! You sly dog, you shouldn’t have.” Beau winks at him exaggeratedly.

 

“They’re not for you.” Dean mutters, blushing.

 

“I know that.” Beau rolls his eyes. “Unfortunately for you, lover boy isn’t in today. He said he wasn’t feeling too well this morning. I gave ‘im the rest of the day off.”

 

“Oh…” Dean furrows his brow in worry. “Is he home?”

 

“That’s where he was headed.”

 

“O-okay… thanks.” Dean turns heel and walks back out to the Impala.

 

When he arrives at the estate, there’s no one inside the main building.

 

“Cas?” Dean calls, “Cas, you here?”

 

Dean is wandering towards the back porch when the peach tree in the backyard catches his eye. Cas is perched under it, staring up into the branches with his hands folded in his lap.

 

“You, uh… you don’t look very sick.” Dean jokes, taking in Cas’ stern expression and closed eyes.

 

Cas’ eyes shoot open.

 

“Dean… what are you doing here?”

 

“I came to see you, silly. Brought you flowers.” Dean sits down beside him and places the flowers in his lap. “Although I deserve extra credit for these guys since I bought them before I even knew you were sick.”

 

Cas stares at the flowers for an uncomfortably long time, completely silent.

 

“Hey, man, if they’re too much I’ll just get rid of them.” Dean blurts out, before he can be subject to further embarrassment.

 

“Dean…”

 

“Really, don’t worry about it. Didn’t mean anything.”

 

“Dean, _please._ ” Cas tightens his hold on the flowers to keep Dean from pulling them away. “Dean… why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“Tell you what? About buying you flowers?” Dean is just confused at this point. Confused and painfully embarrassed. “I was just trying to… I know you like flowers and I wanted to get you some… just forget it.”

 

“Dean… I remember you.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about? Have you – _oh_.” Dean doesn’t think his stomach has ever sunk so fast. “I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry, Cas… I never should have let this happen. I went way too far and you never asked for this… _fuck_. Can we just pretend the last few weeks never happened? And save me the embarrassment?”

 

“I don’t want to pretend.” Cas glares at him. “I don’t want to forget anything else. I don’t want _you_ to _choose_ my wants for me, Dean. I _want_ you. And… I am… _angry_ that we have not slept together yet.” Cas shakes his head. “But I don’t deserve you. Not after what I did… after _everything_ …” Cas’ voice shakes. “How can you pretend it was alright? How can you _pretend_ to love me… after I… _I betrayed you_.”

 

“Y-you want me?” Dean is taken aback.

 

“ _Yes._ ” Cas gasps between shaky breaths. “Yes, I want you. Dean, I _love_ you. Everything I did… it was all for you… but I ruined _everything._ How can you… how can you sit here with me? And pretend nothing ever happened?”

 

“You love me.” Dean can barely breathe as he repeats the words to himself in shock. He grabs Cas’ face and forces him to meet his eyes. “You love me? Cas… you… the you with _memories_?”

 

“Dean… _of course_ ,” Cas replies, eyes glassy and vulnerable. “A-always. Since the beginning.”

 

Dean nearly chokes on a sob. “ _Oh thank god_.” He murmurs before pressing their lips together with an urgency he’s pretty sure he’s never felt before.

 

Cas gasps against his lips and scrambles to hold onto Dean’s shoulders as Dean straddles him and the force of the kiss pushes him back against the bark of the tree.

 

Cas pushes Dean away.

 

“How can you just… _forgive_ me?”

 

“Fuck, Cas… I just _do. Okay?_ ”

 

“Dean…”

 

“You’re not listening to me.” Dean whispers, frustrated. “ _I love you. Okay??_ ”

 

“O-okay.” Cas’ eyes are still shining, but he reaches his hands up to comb them through Dean’s hair. “Will you stay here with me tonight? Just to sleep?”

 

“Just sleep?”

 

“For tonight.” Cas leans forward and presses his face into Dean’s neck. “I just want to be close to you.”

 

“ _Of course._ ”


	6. Dawn

_Like peaches on a summer night, you are sickly sweet._

-Author’s Quote

 

Dean finally took Cas to a beach. Cas had wanted to see the sunrise. The look on his face as they buried their toes in the sand and wrapped a blanket around themselves in the chill of the morning… Dean just couldn’t stop smiling. _Cas had looked so happy._ Dean can still feel where Cas’ pinky had traced over his own as they pressed their hands into the sand. He shivers.

 

_He is here with you now._ Dean can hardly believe it sometimes. He looks to his right as they drive through the night and he’s _there_. Cas is there. And the feeling is so overwhelming… all these thoughts catch Dean completely off guard and shake his foundations until he is forced to turn up the music in the car until he can’t hear himself think.

 

He still doesn’t say a word, but it doesn’t matter. Dean just needs him to _be there_.

 

_It’s astounding, really,_ Dean thinks as they arrive at the sprawling plantation. He watches as Cas climbs gracefully from the car, _Such an ironic statement. He is anything but full of grace._

 

_He chooses you over heaven. Every time._

“Dean.” Cas spins around to face him. “Would you like to come in?”

 

Dean laughs, but he feels his stomach flip in nervous anticipation. “That’s, uh… that’s pretty suggestive there, Cas.”

 

“Yes. I am ‘suggesting’ that you come in for ‘coffee’” Cas replies, air quotes and all.

 

Dean feels a flush heat his cheeks. “’Coffee?’” He repeats, bashfully imitating Cas’ quotation marks.

 

“Yes.” Cas is grinning and his eyes sparkle mirthfully in the pale morning light.

 

“ _Okay._ ”  Dean breathes, heart pounding in his chest as he reaches back into the car to grab something from the glove compartment. His whole body feels like it might start vibrating and he has to work to keep his breathing under control.

 

***

 

Dean wishes he could stay in this moment forever. Watching Cas lick sticky, dripping peach juice from the spaces between his fingers. It isn’t sexual. Cas is just enjoying himself, trying not to get too sticky. Dean smiles as he gazes into Cas’ bright eyes, the life in him making him glow, copper skin shining in the hot, Georgia sunlight… He looks so relaxed, so at peace… like he’s finally found his place in the world. And for some impossible reason, he has chosen to have Dean beside him.

 

 “Sometimes, people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are.” Cas says, musingly. “Someone said that once. I can’t remember who. But you are one of those special people, Dean. You are something bright in the world. And the world tried to crush you in return. But you can’t crush a beacon. A beacon shines, no matter how dense the fog.”

 

Dean is breathless for what feels like an eternity. Cas smiles, his eyes so incredibly warm and filled with emotion as he gazes at Dean. They are underneath an ever blooming peach tree and Cas’ hand is woven with his own, and they are woven together by so much… The impossibility of it all does not escape Dean. He doesn’t deserve this, but Cas does. Cas deserves to have whatever he wants. And for some imperceptible reason he chose Dean. Dean can’t deny Cas anything.

 

“You’re perfect, Cas.” Dean murmurs, turning so he can press a kiss behind Cas’ ear. He still smells like peaches. It surrounds him now. Sweet and heady, and Dean keeps his face pressed sweetly into the sensual curve of Cas’ neck. “Don’t ever change.”

 

“I remember the first time you told me that.” Cas whispers softly, a hand coming up to tangle in Dean’s hair with a permanence that fills Dean with an absolutely eclipsing sense of calm. “I remember feeling so confused. I could never change. As an angel, I was supposed to be resolute and firm in my beliefs. I was supposed to be a star, fixed in the sky. But stars change too. They supernova. They turn into things they never could have predicted or expected. And the supernovae are even more beautiful than anything. They eclipse the sky with their light. They transcend nature.”

_Don’t you want to transcend nature?_

 

“So change is a good thing?” Dean replies, reveling in Cas’ fingers as they expertly stroke through his hair. Like they have always belonged there. “You want to change?”

 

“For the better.” Cas replies, moving his leg so Dean can sit comfortably between them. It feels wonderful. Enclosed and safe. “I want to become who I am when I’m with you. I want to change with you. Together. We can be supernovas together. We’ll shine brighter than anything.”

 

“I want that too.” Dean whispers. “Yeah, Cas. Let’s do it. Let’s be supernovas.”

 

Cas kisses the top of Dean’s head, inhaling deeply as he tangles his arms around Dean’s middle. It’s so quiet, but Dean manages to make out Cas’ soft murmur of “ _Yes._ ”

 

For all the time people spend trying to define “love,” it is actually a very simple thing to understand. It took Dean a while. Because sometimes the simplest things, the things that are in plain sight… It is those things that are the hardest to see. But Dean finally understands. When you fall in love, your axis gets all messed up and, suddenly, your entire world revolves around that one person; that bright light that draws you in. And, like a moth to a flame, you are hypnotized. And sometimes you get burned. But sometimes, the flame is warm and safe. Bright and shining in a starless night. For Dean, Cas is a flame. A lone star in the darkest of nights.  _And in his eyes I see something more beautiful than the stars._

 

Vacation… is a forever place. It is resolute. Fixed. An axial position in the mind whereto one can escape. At any moment.


End file.
